


Mosely and Moscone, FBI

by rosie_berber



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternative Universe - FBI, Angst with a Happy Ending, Castiel and Dean Winchester Need to Use Their Words, Comedy, Dean Hates Witches, Dean Winchester and Feelings, Dean Winchester and Sam Winchester Use Their Words, Demons, Episode: s05e03 Free to Be You and Me, FBI Agent Castiel, FBI Agent Dean Winchester, Fallen Angels, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Ghosts, M/M, Michael's Vessel, Pagan Gods, The Ghostfacers, Vampires, Witches, many feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-16
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-07-24 07:16:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 32
Words: 50,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7499079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosie_berber/pseuds/rosie_berber
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the warped mind of the author who has watched  “Free to Be You and Me” one too many times, enter the world of Mosely and Moscone, agents of the FBI, fighters of evil, drinkers of beer, makers of terrible dad jokes! Exactly like a buddy comedy! Except the comedy is proportional to a good amount of angst. And the buddies are in love with each other. And do things to each others bodies that make me blush.</p><p>Excerpt: It had been this way as long as Dean could remember. Just him, his partner, a case, the Impala. He didn’t always love his job, but this, this he loved. The way the two could clock a hundred miles without speaking. The way they could go for hundreds more without shutting up. He turns towards the passenger, deep in concentration, reading a series of emails from his superior. Eyes of azure taking in every detail of the upcoming case, softly mouthing the words as he reads. One glimpse of this is worth the incessant comparisons to Mulder and Scully by every other local police chief they meet. Dean had worked with others, hell, he had practically grown up working cases alongside his dad in this very car, and yet, he could not imagine anyone else a more perfect fit for that passenger seat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Waterville, Maine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pinkmink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pinkmink/gifts).



> When I began this fic, I just had a [tumblr](http://rosie-berber.tumblr.com/) and didn't know how to use it! Six months later, I'm utter tumblr trash. It's been a longer, weird, sometimes really hard trip to get this done, but it is finished and I am actually very happy with it. Talk to me in comments - come yell at me on tumblr - because that's sort of what keeps us writers going.
> 
> For ease of reading - I've broken up the fic into several acts. It's one cohesive story but - the different acts definitely have slightly different feels to them. 
> 
> I really hope you enjoy. This was a labour of love.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter in which Dean fights his scariest foes yet: mornings and _feelings._
> 
> This chapter is mostly setting up some important themes and elements for the rest of the story - try your best to not drown in the descriptive! There will be lots of cute fluffy moments, some supernatural cases and there is an overarching story (living within the world of Season 5 if not abiding by canon strictly) connecting all of these little assignments together, I promise.

**ACT ONE**

* * *

 

     The screeching siren strikes as it invades the motel room, violently waking the sleeper from his slumber. The auditory attack is nearly too much to bear, ravaging the space between the man’s temples, waging relentless war against each electrical impulse passing through his brain. Battle-weary hands seek contact with the enemy, fumbling to land a fatal blow. The man finally identifies the pest, pulling at its life source, ceasing its incessant blaring. Having vanquished the digital red menace, Dean falls back into the massive bed, whimpering at the familiar pain pounding beneath his forehead. He does not want to greet this day. Still prostrate, he fixes his gaze towards the plastic chandelier hanging over the king size bed as his fingers fold around the royal blue blanket covering him from shoulders to toes. Its hue holds a certain comfort. 

 

     Reluctantly Dean’s arms extend to the brass frame behind his head, fingertips gripping the cool metal, mustering up the strength to lift himself upright. Seated, he is able to more thoroughly inspect the damage of the latest assignment to his body. Purple tones painted across his bare arms and legs. A small gash near his clavicle. Scrapes across his knuckles. The lingering ache within his belly, none too pleased to have been transformed into a punching bag the previous night. A previous night that Dean has only hazy recollections of, thanks to the wonders of ... was it whiskey? It was probably whiskey. After he has completed his inventory of injuries, he manages to swing his legs over the side of the bed, toes curling into the shag carpet beneath. He stands and stretches out his arms, as if they were wings.

 

     The serenity of his angelic pose stands in sharp contrast to the mess he has made of the room. Stumbling, Dean begins to collect his clothing from the night before, hiking the ten-foot trail from bed to door. As he reaches his destination, he curses the brightness as a steady stream of sunlight oppressively breaks through the window. Carefully wrapped in an impromptu garment made of curtains, he peers out, deductive skills put to the test to place his current location. "The vermillion crustacean," as his partner had so eloquently and unnecessarily put it it, emblazoned on the billboard across the road, beckoning diners with someone’s idea of a witty saying involving heads and tails. New England. Even amidst the regional foilage, it is clear he's in the seedy-underbelly-section of town, where Dean always chose lodging, as it nearly guaranteed a great diner was nearby. With great diners comes great pie. Finally his eyes land on the now unlit neon proudly announcing the Waterville Inn has vacancies it is ready to fill. He was still in Maine, awaiting directions for his next case. There are worse places one could wait.

 

     Dean strips the curtain off, carrying his recovered clothing back towards the massive bed that seems to occupy nearly the entirety of the room. He grabs the duffel bag at its foot, shoving the assorted fabrics into its cavity. As the last sock is pushed in, an overwhelming sensation hits Dean. _Dryness_. Like he's being force fed sand. As if he has been stranded in the desert, giving Moses a run for his money for the length of his residency.

 

     Water, source of life, renewal, birth. Water, the first step of recovery for a truly wicked hangover. And so Dean fumbles his way towards the bathroom nearly tripping over his own feet as he hooks down his underwear, letting it fall to the floor. He is simultaneously relieved, shocked, and annoyed to see that there is at least one part of him left unscathed by both the brawl and the subsequent boozing. In his weakened state, it is almost as if his dick is mocking him, standing upright with ease when Dean’s body cannot manage the same.

 

     It should bother Dean that so much of the last case is hazy, details obscured and out of focus. It should bother him, and it will, once his body isn’t simultaneously fighting dehydration, a possible concussion and a vast array of flesh wounds. His body must recover before his mind has any chance. He sets himself on that mission: soap and shampoo in one hand, the other pulls aside the royal blue shower curtain, stepping into the shower, fiddling with the taps. As he pulls a lever, he nearly falls over as a shot of cold, ice cold, _can’t-believe-it’s-coming-out-liquid-because-that-shit-is-freezing_ cold hits him square in the chest.

 

      _Welp, that took care of that,_ he thinks to himself, staring at his defeated vestige of manliness. The shower is perfunctory, aside from the three or four times Dean fills his mouth with water and squirts it back out like a fountain. It would be funny if he was sharing the shower, but, as it is, it is more like he’s regressed to childhood, playing pretend during bath time. The exercise in immaturity leaves him with a very grown-up feeling of loneliness, a longing for a shower buddy in a space most certainly built for one. The momentary lapse into _feelings_ is enough to motivate Dean to once again brave land.

 

     His feet land on the cool porcelain tile, planting firmly as he grabs a towel from the adjacent chrome bar. He swipes at the droplets condensed over the lengths of his limbs, the planes of his face. Satisfied, he wraps the towel low on his hips, moving through the fog towards his next step to recovery. His hand wipes at glass to clear the mirror, taking in a lacerated lip and the undeniable start to a black eye. After applying the stripe to the brush, he holds himself steady, grasping the sink’s edge, entranced by the swirling vortex below as he takes care of his pearly whites. When he spits, there is a stream of red travelling amongst the white foam. Dean runs a tongue over the abrasion in his cheek he thinks to be the source. One more injury to add to the list. As he rinses the last of the minty residue from his mouth, he looks up once more in the mirror, startled by the sudden presence of a figure behind him.

 

     He forcefully lands the palms of his hands on the sink.

 

     “How many times … don’t do that.”

 

     As he turns, he notes the proximity of the other man, feeling as if the bathroom has transformed to the size of a closet. The other man is fully dressed: suit, tie, sensible shoes. As a set of eyes, royal blue, wander over his compromised state. Suddenly the towel feels like a washcloth.

 

     “Hello, Dean.”

 

     “Feeling like a broken record here, Cas. Personal space?”

 

     The other man takes a step back, crossing the threshold from tile to carpet, thrusting forward a styrofoam cup and paper bag from behind his back, unleashing an unfairly charming smirk.

 

     “My apologies.”

 

     Dean collects his gift. The bitter aroma of the coffee and the sweet, buttery scent of the pastry waft up towards his nose. _Th_ _is will help. This will be good._ The simple declarations pass through Dean’s mind, but they do not seem adequate to express his gratitude. His indecision must be perceptible, as the other man once again closes the admittedly narrow distance between their two bodies, and speaks again.

 

     “I know you are always a bit of a monster before caffeine,” he says, the gravel in his voice accompanied by an air of intimacy and warmth. He lifts himself up on his toes slightly, pressing a quick peck to Dean’s forehead before turning and putting a door between himself and Dean.

 

     As Dean meets his reflection in the mirror once more, he wonders how long that flush has been painted across his cheeks.

 

xxxxx

 

     Dean emerges from the bathroom sans towel, clad in the navy undergarment and little more. He makes a casual beeline towards the garment bag hanging from one of the room’s three hangers. Dean glances upon Cas, reclining on the bed, legs crossed, shoes dangling over the edge, hands cradled behind his mop of dark brown hair. The look of quiet contentment on Cas’s face - the way he seems so utterly at ease in this place, with Dean - sends feelings of warmth surging through Dean’s system. He moves to more rapidly put on his suit pants, hoping to conceal the re-emergence of something the cold shower seems to have only quelled momentarily.

 

     Castiel turns to Dean’s direction just as he begins to make progress with the buttons on his pressed shirt. Rolled onto his side, like Manet’s Olympia. His brows constrict, eyes narrow, head tilts in wonder at the arrangement of items scattered across the floor. The unplugged alarm clock. The lamp. Their badges. Dean’s phone.

 

     “Dean, were you attac-”  

 

     Castiel is unable to finish the inquiry, interrupted by a flustered Dean, loosening and retightening his tie.

 

     “It was a rough morning, okay?”

 

     “Dean, we are going to have to work on your precision,” Castiel declares, in a mock-serious tone.

 

     Dean, ever the adult, responds with a fake laugh before sticking out his tongue at the other man.

 

     Cas responds with a grin with too much gum, nearly a grimace, but nonetheless a smile Dean has come to acknowledge as superior to all others. And he swears, it makes him hurt just a little less.

 

     One by one, Dean collects the items off the ground. He arranges the lamp and alarm clock on the bedside table. He slips his cell phone into his pants pocket. He pulls open the first badge, glancing at the name – Castiel Edward Moscone.

 

     “Here,” he thrusts it towards Cas, feeling another healing sensation as his partner’s fingers graze his own before clasping the leather, allowing Dean to let go. He opens his own, as if it could be someone else’s, before slipping it into his suit jacket – Dean Alonzo Mosely, agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

 

     Dean is multitasking, drinking his coffee, eating his breakfast, clearing the last remnants of the wreckage of his previous evening as Castiel receives a call. He scribbles down some notes as he listens attentively to the man on the other end of the line. Presumably, their boss, the assistant director. Dean looks with accomplishment at the motel room, having left all evidence than a functional alcoholic resided within its walls for a week’s time within the trash receptacle near the front door. Castiel ends the call, relaying to Dean the details of their next case.

 

     Dean stuff the last oversized piece of baked good into his mouth, mumbling a “let’s roll” through chunks of the pastry. A bit of cherry filling finds itself at the side of his lip. Castiel walks up to him, playfully licking it off.

 

     “Have to keep you professional. Boss’s orders.”

 

     “Cas, I doubt that’s what he means.”

 

     “Dean, when have you known me to ever question my superiors?”

 

     They continue to argue as they move out the door, their possessions in hand, loading up the Impala for a new stretch of scenery, somewhere along the open road.


	2. Salem, Massachusetts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The two agents hit their road on their way to their next case, stopping in one of America's most infamous cities along the way. My favourite witch from later seasons makes a cameo.

   

  

* * *

 

  

     Slender fingers trace the route on the archaic method of navigation, road-worn and coffee-stained, the penmanship of two generations gracing the margins. Either of the men could find the quickest route on their phones within seconds. But neither felt particularly inclined to disembark from the supernatural scenic route as mapped by John, Dean’s father, a decade prior. Castiel had never met the man, and yet, he felt as if he knew him intimately. The thoughts and notes confined to folded atlases and a leather-bound notebook. How Dean was already a sharpshooter the first day on the Bureau’s range. The expressions he would make when he was upset, or tired, or hungry, or scared, expressions he knows were nourished by John’s non-conventional nature and nurture. The way in which Dean seemed to still communicate with his father through the same twenty tapes in the Impala’s glove compartment, albums he must have heard a thousand times each that still managed to bring a smile to his face. 

 

     “I-95 to Exeter, through Salem.”

 

     The driver smirks. “Dad loved the classics, that’s for sure.”

 

     It had been this way as long as Dean could remember. Just him, his partner, a case, the Impala. He didn’t always love his job, but this? This he loved. The way the two could clock a hundred miles without speaking. The way they could go for hundreds more without shutting up. He turns towards the passenger, deep in concentration, reading a series of emails from his superior. Those brilliantly blue eyes scanning over every detail of the upcoming case. Supple lips softly mouthing the words as he reads. One glimpse of this is worth the incessant comparisons to Mulder and Scully by every other local police chief they meet. Because Dean had worked with others, hell, he had practically grown up working cases alongside his dad in this very car, and yet, he could not imagine anyone else a more perfect fit for that passenger seat.

 

     “This case is fascinating,” Castiel declares, still scrolling through details on his phone, oblivious to all of Dean's admirations. "The town has been experiencing a series of unusual deaths.”

 

     “What flavour of unusual we talking here, Cas?”

 

     “Exsanguination." The term is espoused with entirely too much glee. "Three victims in the past two months.”

 

     Castiel readjusts his phone in Dean’s direction, swiping through a series of photographs snapped by the coroner. Pale, lifeless women. All with identical puncture wounds to their necks.

 

     “Thanks for the slideshow, Cas.”

 

     Castiel ignores the barb.

 

     Dean continues. “So, three ladies unlucky enough to have had a run-in with some small-town Dracula. Definitely our kind of case, but fascinating? You seem to be lowering the bar for intrigue here, Cas.”

 

     “It’s happened before.”

 

     “Now we’re talking.”

 

     “By the end of the 1800’s, the town was on its way to becoming a ghost town, and not in the spectral sense. Its population had been cut to a third of what it was at the century’s start. Town historians blame infertile land, disease, the Civil War, the rails that began to stretch from coast to coast.”

 

     “You don’t buy it?”

 

     “The reasons are all well and good, but the abundance of them provides a pretty good cover for anyone who needed to snatch away a few bodies now and again, doesn’t it?”

 

     Dean nods in Castiel’s direction, delighted at the deceit Castiel is so quickly able to imagine. When they were first assigned to work cases together, Dean found himself in a perpetual state of frustration with Castiel’s approach. He was arrogant and all-knowing, hand-picked from some ivory tower to be a pain in Dean’s ass. In their first meeting, it took all of the professionalism Dean had managed to cobble together in his three years as an agent to not lay into Castiel with bullets or plunge a knife into his chest. Castiel had come to the Bureau with very rigid ideas of good and evil, the side of the angels and the side of the demons. Which Dean learned, in time, was for a good reason: Castiel was literally heaven-sent. It took some time for Dean to not want to beat Cas to the punch and pierce his own eyes or ears out in his presence, just as it took Castiel some time to learn that the world was not composed of sharply contrasted blacks and whites, but seemingly infinite shades of gray. But slowly, surely, Castiel’s acceptance of Dean’s mentorship began to show. His attempt to joke. His ability to think a bit more creatively about cases. His willingness to question the authority of their superiors. His desire to blaze his own path, at Dean’s side. As he once again looks upon the dorky little guy at his side, Dean feels a swelling sensation take over his body, an overwhelming sense of pride.

 

     He grabs Castiel’s hand, making the phone drop into his lap.

 

     “Dean, I was still reading that. There are many more details of the case I would still like to relay to you. For instan--”

 

     “We got five solid hours on the road Cas. All in good time. Right now, let me just have this.”

 

     The angel may have a rebellious streak, but only with cause. With a sigh he stores the phone away, resting his head upon the shoulder of the driver, letting himself be happy to be along for the ride.

 

xxxxx

 

     Three hours later, the polished black doors of the Impala open and close in the city infamous for its witch trials. Castiel insists they skip the wax figures of the museum for the “real deal” at Gallows Hill. Dean manages to withhold a snarky comment at the lame phrase because it is somehow sweet when it falls from Castiel’s lips. It is a feat Dean believes might help his case one day for sainthood. To most it would be creepy, the rabid enthusiasm with which Castiel speedwalks from gravestone to gravestone in the barren field, the eagerness with which he memorizes the names of the men and women hung here in hysteria. But to Dean, it is sort of touching to see the depths of the interest Castiel has in human history, in events completely detached from heavenly mandates. There is part of him that wants to stay in moments like this for as long as he can, where the two are safe, free, unencumbered. There is another part of him, a loud, rumbling part of him, that reminds him his body has needs, the most pressing at the moment a need for grease and libations.

 

     Ten minutes of zig-zagged driving later, with Dean cursing the city planners of Salem, claiming them to be the _truly evil_ ones, the two are seated at The Witches Brew. While the pun had made them both smirk, the fully stocked bar was what made Dean give the place two enthusiastic thumbs up. They each order a pint from their waitress, a striking woman with crimson red hair. Her strong Scottish accent pours from her mouth like honey as she takes their orders. Dean satiates his daily requirement for cholesterol and then some, thankful that Castiel is not a health-food crazed hippie. He doesn’t know what he would do if he had to negotiate on eateries, if diners had to be in equal balance with salad bars. As the last piece of bacon is washed back with the last sip from his second beer, their waitress again materializes, seemingly out of thin air, asking if she can get them anything else. The two should be eager to get to Exeter, but figure that the town can survive an hour or two longer without them.

 

     “How was everything gentlemen?”

 

     “I enjoyed this immensely,” Castiel remarks, gesturing towards his empty glass. “I'm quite enamoured with the town, actually. You can feel the history here.”

 

     “Ah, yes, that is something our little city does not lack. Have worked very hard to preserve the memory of those we lost, even if it's not the most flattering picture one could paint. Glad Salem has you in its thrall.” Her eyes dart towards Dean. “And you -  have we put you under our spell as well?”

 

     “Me? Nah, I'm just along for the ride. Dead Witches Society ain't really my bag, Red. No offence. Unless _you_ know of anything that might change my mind?” Dean can't help as the last sentence flow from his lips a bit more flirtatious than he intends, a habit he can't seem to shake.

 

     The nickname elicits a forced smile from the woman, who implores them to visit the Turner-Ingersoll mansion, better known as the House of the Seven Gables, just down the block. She drops off the bill and wishes the men a good afternoon, hoping for the sake of her tip that it at least sounds like she means it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Witches Brew is real and I very much think Rowena would hate working there.


	3. On The Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The details of the boys' upcoming case are detailed. We're dealing with vampires friends!

* * *

 

        An hour and one “Teaching Fine Witches Since 1692” t-shirt later, the two are back on the road, their positions reversed. Dean had nobly fought to retain his role as driver, but his argument that he would intuit the facts of the case upon arrival was quickly dismissed by Castiel as “asinine.”

 

     “Bitch.” Suddenly, a strange sensation washes over Dean, hearing the response in his head. Only the “jerk” muttered was not in Castiel’s voice, but by an accent much like his own. He dismisses the uncanny feeling, instead turning his attention to the research Castiel had so  _k_ _indly_ forwarded to him, insisting there would be a quiz upon arrival. Dean quickly scans over the pertinent details regarding the three victims. Lindsey, 17, high school student. Brown hair, brown eyes, average height and weight. Neither homecoming queen nor outcast. Ordinary as they come. Violet, 38, shopkeeper. Blonde hair, green eyes, elegant, tall. Recently separated from long-time boyfriend. Harriet, 45, defense attorney. Well-established and well-regarded in the community. As far as victims go, the three women did not seem to fit a consistent profile, other than their sex. Frustrated by how little they had to go on, Dean opens another file, titled Mercy Brown.

 

_CONSUMPTION, the disease that whipped both Europe and America into a fearful frenzy in the nineteenth century. Its horrors manifest in the blood-soaked handkerchiefs from Moscow to Madrid, a curse of the Old World that found life in the New World. It left in its wake an evergrowing number of victims, all who appeared as emaciated versions of their former selves within their last days, as if drained of life itself. As the Red Death claimed more and more victims, populaces, in Europe and across the Atlantic, looked for answers. Some turned to science, other to morality, and still others turned to lore. And so rose to prominence the figure of the vampire in the nineteenth century._

 

_The Brown family was particularly impacted by the horrors of consumption. First, Mary Eliza, the matriarch, in 1882. Then her namesake, Mary Olive, 1883. Son Edwin contracted the disease shortly after, but managed to battle it for over a decade. Mercy Lena succumbed to the disease in 1892 after a short bout._

 

_All but George Brown, the patriarch, would fall to the disease. As he watched yet another of his children waste away, it is said that George turned to answers outside of doctors and the Church. Answers whispered amongst the townspeople of Exeter, to which George had covered his ears to that point.  But no longer._

 

_Neighbours convinced George that something was afoul - that one of the three Brown women was not dead and gone, but rather, undead, preying on the living. They needed to exhume the bodies, to look for the evidence that would be irrefutable proof that Edwin was not a victim of consumption, but rather, a dark and malevolent force. They would examine each of the women, looking for that which does not exist in a corpse: fresh blood._

 

_And so, in the early hours of the seventeenth of March, 1892, six men from the village put their shovels to work, disturbing the graves of Mary Eliza, Mary Olive and Mercy Lena. The remains of the mother and firstborn daughter were skeletal - but the last, the corpse of Mercy Lena, was largely intact. As the knife’s blade pierced the frozen skin of Mercy’s chest, a scarlet hue stained the silver. Blood was found within her heart, proof enough to the terrified masses that Mercy had been spending her nights not within the pine box, but rather, stalking in the shadows of the night, feeding off the flesh of the living._

 

_Under the fanciful impression it was the only way in which Edwin could be saved from the fate of his recently unearthed family members, Mercy’s heart and liver were removed from her body, burned by the townspeople, and fed to her ailing brother._

 

_Within months he was dead._

 

_Mercy was once again buried, near the father who feared his daughter to be a mistress of the Dark, and the brother who consumed her ashes. The town of Exeter, no longer in the throes of the terror of consumption, regard the incident as an ugly scar, a reminder of the brutality possible when human beings give into fear._

 

     “Well, mercy me,” Dean remarks as he finishes reading.

 

     “Dean, I’m not sure if that was an attempt at humour. If so, I fail to find the amusing aspects of the desecration of a young woman’s corpse. Not to say anything of the three recent deaths, and the absolute lack of a suspect.”

 

     The seasoned agent rolls his eyes at the absolute lack of appreciation for his comedic chops. “Cas, you’re used to dealing with heavyweights. Archangels smiting. Demons that were walking the earth before humans knew it was round. You could run into _Lucifer_ at family reunions, for fuck's sake. Vampires? This is minor league stuff for us.”

 

     “I wish I shared your confidence,” the angel responds shortly.

 

     “Hunter’s honour, we’ll be out of this town in two days, tops.”

 

xxxxx

 

     A knock accompanied by a slip of paper finding its way underneath the bottom of the door.

 

_From the Front Desk - Just letting you gentlemen know you have qualified for the inn’s weekly rate. Hope your stay is going well!_

 

     Castiel passes the parchment to Dean, who reads its words as he adjusts his tie in the mirror.

 

     “Not a word Cas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Mercy Brown case was very much real! There was this mini-hysteria at the end of the 19th century regarding vampirism in New England. Fascinating (creepy) stuff!


	4. Exeter, Rhode Island (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chapter where Dean and Cas get their vampire slayer on. Includes some smut, so NSFW, folks.

          

* * *

 

 

     They open the door to the local pub just past eight in the evening, needing to wind down after a particularly arduous day. Castiel carried the most important documents from the case in a thick file folder tucked under his canvas-clad arm. As they make their way back to a booth, they direct polite nods to familiar faces. To the cashier from the convenience store who nervously pulls at the label on the amber bottle in front of him, appearing to be caught in one of those awkward lulls on a first date. To the police chief, Gregor Bowen, attention split between his steak sandwich and the Bruins game overhead. To the inn proprietor, throwing darts with such precision Dean makes a mental note to _definitely not_ skip out on their hotel bill. They quickly settle into their seats, Cas quickly spreading the folder’s documents across the entirety of the wooden table.

 

     “The usual for you both tonight?” Neither man had glanced at a menu - in fact, the menus were currently covered by a collection of newspaper clippings Castiel had copied at the library that afternoon. Each lifts his head from the evidence only long enough for an affirmative gesture towards the waitress.

 

     “Great, we’ve been here long enough to become _regulars_ ,” Dean complains gruffly.

 

     “Dean, I don’t think you should worry. Your order is so standard most servers, even ones far less competent than Jo, would have committed it to memory.”

 

     “You are on a first-name basis with _Jo_ then?”

 

     “Yes, and her mother, there behind the bar, Ellen. I find them both to be quite agreeable, I must admit. Even though it is very obvious that Jo has begun to harbour a bit of a crush on you.”

 

     Try as he might to fight it, Dean can feel the blush spread across his cheeks. It’s not that he isn’t flattered - Jo’s cute - and it’s not that it’s an altogether unusual phenomenon - he had left a trail of broken hearts in his wake in his heydey. It’s just that he’s never had it pointed out by Castiel before. It makes him nervous, like he wants to run from his very adult feelings as fast as he can.

 

     “Jealous?” Dean belches out the word after a particularly long gulp of beer.

 

     Castiel feigns indifference to his partner, a man who suddenly seems ill-equipped to mentor the angel in social graces. “Hardly. She can have you.”

 

     Dean puts on his best wounded expression, acting so deeply offended at the rejection. And even though he knows Castiel is trying his best to joke, there is some part of him, a part he could never admit to out loud, that would like to see his partner get a bit territorial.

 

     The unspeakable emotion is cast deep down to the pit of Dean’s stomach just as Jo delivers their dinners: bacon cheeseburger sliders (each of which he proceeds to eat in one gargantuan bite, much to Castiel’s horror) and fries for Dean, a bowl of creamy tomato soup for Castiel.

 

     Speaking with food in his mouth (where _were_ his manners tonight?), Dean continues to poke fun at his partner. Because what's a better way to show your love and affection than good old-fashioned ribbing? “Now I ain’t got nothing against a good bowl of soup, but there are more exciting things to eat out there, Cas. With bacon. Some you even have to chew.”

 

     “Dean, when I eat, it is purely to put on a show. All I taste are molecules. What I like about soup is that all of the molecules are precisely the same. The avant-garde and the appetizing are wasted on the angel’s palette, I’m afraid.”

 

     “Bummer,” Dean manages to say nonchalantly between fries.  

 

     “Yes... _bummer_ indeed.” Castiel spoons another scoop of the red-orange liquid into his mouth. “Shall we review the case so far?”

 

     “Cas, we’ve spent the last week going over the minutiae of this case, over and over again. Two puncture wounds on each of their necks by an instrument made of unknown origin. No DNA. No other signs of assault. We’ve pored over these women’s lives. Lindsey liked to smoke the occasional doobie under the bleachers. Violet’s ex was a dick. Harriet defended the poor and downtrodden. We’ve interviewed everyone who so much as bumped into one of them. We looked at the enemies, if you could call them that, that they each had. Even investigated the whole strangers-on-a-train angle. And where did it get us? Nowhere. None of them had it coming, but all of them are gone. Another night of reading missing persons reports from the past hundred years is not going to piece it altogether. So why don’t we take the night off, play some pool, get sufficiently buzzed, and try again in the morning?”

 

     “But there may be something we have missed...”

 

     “Cas, we haven’t missed anything. There’s something out there we haven’t found, but we’re not going to find it tonight. So consider me off the clock. Now I’m going to go order a slice of pie from that pretty young waitress, the one you are definitely _not_ jealous of. You can either meet me at the bar for a drink while I eat it in all its blueberry glory, or you can stay here and convince yourself that if you read that article for the four hundredth time, you’re magically going to solve the mystery. Up to you.”

 

     Dean gets up from the booth and works his way towards the bar, sitting on a stool. Castiel is at his side before Jo has finished laughing at the first lame joke Dean has told her.

 

xxxxx

 

 

     The two leave the bar much later than any professionals should be awake on a Wednesday evening. Or Thursday morning, for that matter. Castiel half-hopes they run into Nosferatu as they stumble back towards the inn, but alas, they do not encounter so much as a fellow drunk, much less one with fangs.

 

     As soon as the door shuts behind them, Dean showcases his most impressive skill of being able to strip from his suit with awe-inspiring speed. He’s already down to his vibrant red boxer-briefs as he pushes his way into the pair’s bathroom, splashing water on his face and force-feeding himself two aspirin and a glass of water, hoping to prevent a painful wake-up four hours in the future. Castiel is slipping into a pair of pajama pants as Dean vacates the bathroom.

 

     “Won’t be needing those for long,” Dean growls in Cas’s general direction. Castiel hates that such a vulgar line has worked with such efficiency, as he finds himself suddenly straining against the cotton bottoms. Dean races over to him, engulfing him in a sloppy but satisfying kiss, hands pressed firmly along the sides of his face, a fury to which Castiel surrenders unconditionally. He rests his hands on the small of Dean’s back, slowly, steadily pulling him towards the bed.

 

     The back of Castiel’s thighs hit the mattress, prompting his recline. Dean suddenly summons up the grace to crawl on top of him, hovering his lips over Castiel’s before plunging his tongue down passionately. He grinds his weight into Castiel, relishing each moan he is able to elicit from his pert, pink lips. Dean begins to paw at the thin pants of his partner, a grin extending from ear to ear as he feels an undeniably wet spot forming. With one quick tug he bares all that Castiel has to give, a fond gaze quickly overpowered by insatiable lust. Soon his two hands shed himself from his own increasingly inhospitable clothing. Skin to skin, Castiel’s body is charged. Dean quickly hooks both of his arms under Castiel’s elbows, lifting him upright, landing him on his lap. Castiel returns the favour in full, wrapping each of his legs around Dean. Enfolded into one another, their eyes and lips line up in complete parallel. The two defy mathematical principles that mandate that which is parallel never touches, slowly coming together as one.

 

     Castiel lets his hands rest on the back of Dean’s neck as he slows their speed, kissing Dean with intention, with a precision of touch, with a reverence that would make freshly fallen snow feel impure. He lays witness to the tremble of his lips, a rapt audience to the manic symphony Dean’s pulse is conducting. He studies each and every movement of the body, records the crescendo and decrescendo of Dean’s libidinal breaths. He is enthralled by each and every element of Dean’s existence, praising, _worshiping_ each and every atom that works in harmony to make this man who he is. His fingers trace deft circles amidst the light hairs across the back of his neck, the touch so gentle Dean whimpers. He loses himself to the moment, unable to remember when his body ceased being his own and melted into the other man’s.

 

     Dean wraps a slick hand around the two men, his fingers tracing Castiel’s length, then his own. His arousal spikes as Castiel presses his forehead against Dean’s, leaning into him, the breath of his soft whine grazing Dean’s cheek. Closed eyes open like the evening primrose, as if they were new to this world until this night. Shades of blue and green blend together over and over, like a painter seeking an explicit shade of turquoise.

 

     “Dean...” A celestial instrument reduced to a tremor.

 

     “Cas...” The voice breaks, vulnerable.

 

     Castiel places his hands on the sides of Dean’s stubble as he descends into the wave overtaking him. Dean gives himself to the tide, and the two drown in a kiss, gasping for breaths but unwilling to come up for air.

 

xxxxx

 

     The hands of Dean’s watch point precisely to the six and twelve as they pull into the Exeter Police Station. The sun has yet to fully rise in the autumnal New England sky. Chief Bowen, apparently pleased with the Bruins’ performance the night before, cheerfully greets them as he unlocks the station’s front doors.

 

     “Good morning Agent Mosely, Agent Moscone! You fellas look extra chipper this morning, if you don’t mind me saying. Made any progress on the case? Or just woke up on the right side of the bed?”

 

     An audible _snort_ finds its way falling out of Castiel’s mouth. “The latter. But I have a good feeling about the former as well.”

 

     Dean smiles, wanting to buck code of conduct for a kiss that would put Times Square, 1945 to shame. He settles for a long drag of coffee just as a call comes in over the scanner, audible over the chief’s walkie.

 

     “Chief… we’ve got another one.”

 

 

 

     The two men quickly feel the flush fade from their complexions, cold and alabaster in seconds.

 

 


	5. Exeter, Rhode Island (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Agents Mosely and Moscone continue working their case in Exeter.

          

* * *

 

 

     The two travel in haunted silence as they make their way to the scene. Each does not dare to speak, but the thought pulsates through both of their minds. _We were happy. Because we were happy, because we took a night to live without care, to pay no attention to the case, another one lost her life. She could have grown old, gotten married, started collecting weird glass figurines, learned French. You can’t learn French when you are lying dead in an alley._

 

     Dean is the first to pass by the yellow tape, flashing his badge as a formality to the uniformed officer who he had complimented for making damn good coffee just two days prior. Castiel follows close behind, trying to observe the things he thinks Dean might miss - colours, scents, debris that might look meaningless but hold some deeper meaning. The two both find a shade paler than white when they look upon the victim. A familiar face.

 

     The woman had been in the station as the two arrived to town, in hold-up for shoplifting at a local cosmetics shop. Dean was astounded when he heard that she had managed to lift over $400 in merchandise from the store. The store’s owner was willing to let the woman off with a fine and a permanent ban from her establishment. He remembered hoping she’d turn her life around as she raced out the police station’s front doors.

 

     And now, here she was in front of them, the two marks indented into the side of her neck, face frozen in a look of horror. The local detectives sweep the surrounding area for any potentially useful clues. The chief, beaming before sunrise, looks despondent in his squad car as he accompanies them back to the station.

 

     “What do we know about the most recent victim?” Castiel is asking the question as much to himself as he is to Dean, the two moving swiftly towards the conference room they had called home this past week.

 

     “Teresa Mahon. 23.”

 

     One of the local officers, a short woman with frizzy red hair, offers more. “Have had a few run-ins with her before. Minor stuff. Unpaid parking tickets. One drunken disagreement at a bar. The shoplifting thing last week. But nothing...nothing like this.”

 

     None of the information is particularly important, but it turns a wheel in Castiel’s mind.

 

_The shoplifter._

_The public defender._

_The woman seeking a restraining order against her ex._

_The teen who was caught smoking pot._

 

_The thing that connects them is this place. The station._

_The killer is one of them._

 

     Castiel tries to telepathically communicate his discovery to Dean through intense, narrow eyes.

 

     “Dude, you feeling alright? You look like you’re about to be sick or something,” Dean says with concern, clearly not inferring from Castiel’s expression what it is he means.

 

     “Yes, my stomach...it suddenly feels upset. I need to go back to the inn. Would you drive?”

 

xxxxx

 

     As soon as the doors shut, Castiel reprimands Dean. “Dean, those were not my ‘sick’ eyes. Those were my ‘the murderer is among us’ eyes.”

 

     “Really? You’ve got a set of ‘the murder is among us’ eyes, locked and loaded? Well, no offense Cas, but they looked a lot like my ‘I’m about to throw up a week’s worth of tomato soup' eyes.”

 

     Castiel huffs at the other man, who even in this moment of frustration he can't seem to help finding entirely too charming. “Look, my ability to use nonverbal cues to communicate is not the pressing issue here. The vampire - it’s someone on the police force.”

 

     The accusation makes Dean abandon his wit. “What makes you say that?”

 

     “Think about it. All four women had recent interactions with the police. Positive or negative, it doesn’t matter. It’s one of them, I know it, I feel it in my gut.”

 

     “Listen, Cas, I trust your guts at all, but we need more proof than that before we get all machete happy.”

 

     “Dean, it’s time to review my case notes.” Castiel uses the power formerly reserved for smiting demonkind to banish the smile can feel forming in his cheeks at the prospect.

 

     Dean reluctantly consents, visions of vampire slaying in his future making the tedium of going over paperwork a little more bearable.

 

xxxxx

 

     The orange hues of dusk break through the window as Castiel rereads arrest reports for the tenth time, looking for some common denominator. His concentration is momentarily thrown by a knock at the door. Dean walks over to to answer, a half-empty bottle of beer hanging from his left hand.

 

     “Chief Bowen?”

 

     “Just checking in to see how your partner’s doing, Agent Mosely. And to bring you some dinner, in case you can’t get out.”

 

     “Small towns. Gotta love the hospitality,” Dean says cheerfully, meeting the chief outside the door. “Thanks for this. Cas is still in pretty rough shape, but we’re hoping to get back to work, full-force tomorrow.”

 

     The chief shifts onto his heels, eyes fixed towards the sky. “Well that’s a relief. I gotta say, I’m feeling in over my head here.” The man in the uniform unconsciously itches at a piece of red skin wrapping his wrist. A red that seems to deepen as each second passes. Skin that must be incredibly sensitive to sunlight, skin that eagerly longs for night to come. Dean force his eyes from the skin, focusing on a random spot in the parking lot to calm his nerves.

 

     “We’ve got your back chief. Hey, why don’t you let me tidy up the room and then you can come in and have a beer with me, while I mow down on that dinner you brought?” Dean is sure that the invitation is delivered casually, that he has controlled his heartbeat enough to hide all ulterior motives. Primarily, to not be alone and weaponless with a vampire.

 

     “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask for a raincheck. Still got some business to attend to. I will see you two tomorrow?” He flashes a fangless smile at Dean as he walks at an indiscernible pace back to his squad car.

 

     Dean waves his most insincere wave as he watches the tires turn. He opens the room’s door, dumping the styrofoam in the garbage can untouched.

 

     “Cas. Put away the reports. We got our monster. It’s hunting season.”

 

xxxxx

 

     Ten minutes haven’t passed before the two men are each outfitted with a machete concealed beneath their suit jackets, the wheels of the Impala quickly spinning back towards the station. Dean is relieved to see the familiar license plate in the parking lot. He is less enthused by the darkened building.

 

     “He’s in there, Cas, I know it. I feel it in my gut.”

 

     The angel turns towards his partner. “I trust your guts Dean. Let’s go.”

 

     That trust earns Castiel a kiss. For good luck.

 

     The two proceed slowly towards the station’s back door, which Dean is able to jimmy open in no time. Each of the men tread lightly through the station, trying to move silently. Dean rounds a corner, giving Cas the all clear, when suddenly, a massive object falls from the ceiling. The silhouette slowly gains definition: Bowen, baring his a mouthful of canines.

 

     He hisses his opening monologue towards the two agents. “Guessing you didn’t try any of the dinner I brought you. Got to say, that stings. Not very neighborly. Even included some of that pie you liked so much. Added my own special ingredient.”

 

     Castiel is the first to lunge towards the man, the blade finding itself enmeshed in drywall as Bowen evades his maneuver, grabbing Castiel by the hair in the process.

 

     A fistful of dark brown locks within his possession, Bowen relentlessly smashes several Castiel shaped holes in the wall. “It’s nothing personal, really guys. If I’m being totally honest, watching you two idiots chase your tails for the last week has been the most entertaining spectacle I’ve witnessed in, let’s say, a hundred years or so?” His hand finally releases the angel to avoid the sharp swing of Dean’s machete.

 

     Castiel forces his mind to neglect the searing pain, courtesy of a now broken nose and what he assumes to be several cracked ribs. _Gregor Bowen._ Castiel scans his mind for the name, going back a century, then further. _No Gregor Bowen. In fact, this Gregor Bowen has only been in town since 1992. 92. Mercy Brown. George Brown. GREGOR BOWEN. GEORGE BROWN._

 

_Mercy wasn’t the vampire - her father was._

 

     “So, who’s buried in that grave?” Castiel raspily inquires, nonchalantly spitting blood towards the creature sustained by the very substance.

 

     “By George! I think he’s got it!” Bowen lands a blow to Dean’s jaw, recolouring a face that had only begun to lose its most recent purples and blues.

 

     “Got what? It’s pretty obvious you’re a vampire, dick.”

 

     Castiel stands once more, ready to be sent back to the front lines. “This is George Brown, Dean. He was the vampire, not his daughter. And now he’s at it again.”

 

     “What can I say? Home sweet home, and all of that.” Bowen slams Dean into a detective’s desk, the wood splintering beneath the hunter’s body.

 

     “Why them? Why these women?” Castiel growls the questions as he barrels into the yet unharmed monster.

 

     Bowen manages to grab him by the tie, wrestling the machete away from Castiel as he is deprived of air. As Dean stumbles to his feet, Bowen rearranges Castiel’s body so that his machete is pressed against the front of his neck.

 

     “Oh, Agent Moscone. Do you watch much TV? I’m guessing … no. Well, if there’s one thing that American audiences just can’t get enough of, it’s dead damsels in distress.” As Castiel struggles against the man’s hold, a thin red line begins to be painted across his neck.

 

     “No matter who the corpse is, they try to find a reason she got killed. Got into drugs. Dick boyfriend. You get the picture. Now, I’m not condoning it, but it’s the way of the world.” Dean looks on, his next move limited by the insurance Bowen currently possesses within his hands. Limited until he sees Cas’s hands no longer struggling to get free, but slowly moving towards his hip, a metallic shine visible even in the darkened station. He shoots Dean a glance that cannot be mistaken for nausea.

 

     “Folks just can’t seem to help themselves - they’ve always got to find some reason she went and got herself killed. Pretty easy to evade capture when they are always finding a way to blame the victim. It’s downright shameful.”

 

     “Nice speech. But I still blame you.” The words leaving Dean's lips are Castiel's green light. He abruptly fires a shot into Brown’s gut, quickly ducking as Dean rushes forward with his machete and, in one clean swipe, kills the Red Death.

 

xxxxx

 

     “So Bowen just left town?” the frizzy redhead asks of her partner.

 

     “Yeah, said the pressure of the job was too much. Left a hell of a mess too.” They pay for their coffees and head out the door.

 

     The two agents are seated at their _usual_ booth. Dean looks up from the paper, pained to see Castiel rub the red ring around his neck. He is about to beg him for the twentieth time to stop being a tough guy and heal himself when he is cut off by a familiar voice.

 

     “You guys on your way out? Don’t usually see you in here before the sun goes down. Don’t know what your morning orders are!” Jo looks at the two with kind eyes.

 

     “Black coffee. Bacon. Eggs.”

 

     “I’ll take a Bloody Mary please.”

 

     “Really Cas? Too soon.”


	6. Washington D.C.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fluffy, silly chapter where we meet some other characters in this verse. During karaoke. Because if there is a trope you will pull from my cold, dead hands - it's karaoke. Okay, it's like thirty of them, but I really like making Dean sing.

 

* * *

 

    The bill arrives in Castiel’s absence, leading Dean to wonder if the angel times when he is getting these check-in phone calls with headquarters. Leather wallet in hand, Dean is suddenly too distracted to count currency. Firstly, by the sequence of ten numbers sheepishly scrawled at the bottom of the check. Secondly, by the trenchcoat blur he can occasionally catch glimpses of pacing back and forth in front of the restaurant window. The vision of the second results in an absolute disinterest of the first. He manages to tear away his eyes just long enough to pull out enough money to reasonably satisfy the guilt he has about leaving the phone number to die a dignified death on the bill, never having a chance to make it into Dean’s contact list.

 

    As Dean pushes through the glass door, he catches Castiel midway through performing a chorus of “yes sir’s.” He waits a full minute before he grabs Castiel’s free hand and guides him towards the car, knowing full and well it will earn him one of those exasperated looks that fill Dean with an immense sense of pride. Castiel, ever the professional, refuses to give the act any attention, nonchalantly allowing himself to be led as he finishes the call. “On our way sir. Yes, I also look forward to seeing you tonight. Goodbye.”

 

    As the call completes, Dean stops in his tracks. “So … D.C.?” The words come out equal parts question and exclamation. It has been weeks since Dean has slept in a bed without a seedy history. He turns to his partner for confirmation. The two letters he receives in confirmation elicit a giddy grin.

 

    As he begins to unlock the Impala’s front door, he notices something unusual in the backseat. His beloved cooler has somehow migrated from the trunk to the interior. He borrows a move from Cas’s playbook, squinting his eyes and craning his neck, gesturing towards the metallic bin.

 

    “Yes Dean, I packed a special lunch for us to share. I know you appreciate small gestures, especially when they are food-related. Although after being harassed while on a _very important_ _work call_ , I am reconsidering my company.” He pauses for dramatic effect, then makes his eyes cartoonishly-wide. “Maybe I’ll just grab it and flutter away, enjoy some alone time…” Castiel looks off into the distance, as if to sell his point.

 

    It is a goofiness he wouldn’t have understood, much less partook in, a year before. Knowing what an influence he has had on the angel moves Dean to grab him squarely by the shoulders, meeting the angel’s baby blues with his own green. “You’re so cute when you try to joke,” Dean insists, placing a small peck on Castiel’s forehead.

 

    Soon the backseat of the Impala is littered with a trenchcoat, two suit jackets, Dean’s button-down and tie, and the cooler, still present, so long as Dean keeps his promise that he wouldn’t ruin the surprise by peeking. The doors of the Impala close in sync, the engine roars to life, and once again, the rear-view mirror holds the last glimpses of a town they had saved, without accolades.

 

    They have been on the highway for an hour of much-deserved silence when Castiel, amidst organizing a plan to efficiently finish the paperwork for their last assignment, remembers to deliver the rest of the message from his earlier call.

 

    “We have plans tonight, by the way. Everyone is meeting for drinks.”

 

    “Sounds good.”

 

    “And…” It is clear Castiel does not want to finish the sentence, as if he can foresee the future, knowing this situation can only lead to bad things. Horrible things. Truly evil things.

 

    Dean recognizes the nervousness, and it fills him with unbridled excitement. “And what Cas? Drinks and dinner? Drinks and axe throwing? Drinks and ritual sacrifice?”

 

    Castiel inhales a long, deep breath, filling his vessel’s lungs before allowing the word to pass through his lips, even then at a decibel hardly loud enough for human ears.

 

    “Karaoke.”

 

    Dean really tries to keep his shit together. He tries to fight his mouth’s muscles pulling into a wide smile across his face. He tries to tell his fingers that it’s a bad idea to start drumming against the steering wheel. He tries to tell himself that it’s a bad idea to look at Cas right now, that he’s wearing his happy eyes and that he might, nay, he _will_ be mocked relentlessly for his excitement over the festivities ahead. But then Dean thinks, nah, fuck that. He reaches towards the passenger window, letting his fingers playfully run across Castiel’s lap, before opening the glove compartment.

 

    “Pick your poison Cas. Time to rehearse.”

 

xxxxx

 

 

     _The patience of an angel._ It was an idiom Castiel never fully comprehended, for his own experience of time was so fundamentally different from human beings. What they called a lifetime passed as a blink in his own existence. It was not until this moment, two hours into _Dean Mosely Presents: The Greatest Hits of the Impala’s Cassette Collection_ , that Castiel begins to understand the merit of the phrase. He does possess the patience of an angel, for no mere mortal could withstand so much air-strumming and off-key serenading. And yet, the angel (who was a first-hand witness to the compositions of Beethoven and Bach) has to make a concession: there is no sound more beautiful to his ears than Dean straining to hit the high notes. But that is a thought deeply buried in his mind, his poker face resolute. Not that Dean is relying upon his encouragement - his manic energy is intact as they cross from state line to state line.

 

    “Come on Cas! You know this one - join in!” The familiar sound of one of Dean’s favourite songs, “Ramble On,” bounces off the steel surfaces of the car.

 

    “I know all of the songs you have played, Dean. It doesn’t take the neural capacity of a celestial being to be able to memorize the same twenty cassette tapes you play over and over.” Dean refuses to acknowledge the insult, instead continuing to mouth the lyrics with frenetic energy. And while he would insist it was against his will if ever questioned by his superiors, Cas can’t help but join in.

 

xxxxx

 

 

    By the time they stop for lunch, seated alongside the George Washington Bridge, Dean’s voice, strained from singing, is now silent.

 

    “There is a God, after all.” Castiel delivers the line deadpan serious, met with green eyes suddenly filled with daggers.

 

    The two eat some artisanal cheese, sausage, jam and bread Castiel had procured from some of the local shops of Exeter (of which Dean initially mocked, then repented after the sweet and savoury notes made love to his mouth) and share a bottle of Bordeaux as they sit on the riverbank of the Hudson. Castiel looks at the engineering feat connecting two states as he passes the translucent green bottle, nearly empty, to the man who has his head rested upon his shoulder. _When they face obstacles, they make bridges,_ he thinks silently, falling just a little bit more in love with humanity as he feels his fingers grazed by their greatest achievement.

 

xxxxx

 

    Warmed by the pleasant buzz of the red wine flowing through his body, Dean spends the afternoon sleeping in the passenger seat while Castiel drives, secretly rehearsing.

 

xxxxx

 

    They arrive in the nation’s capital just as the workday is ending, the crawling traffic reminding Castiel that, despite Dean’s fervent enthusiasm for Baby, driving is a painfully inefficient way to travel. They arrive at Dean’s apartment with just long enough to shower, shave and change before meeting their coworkers for the aforementioned social hour. Castiel in a freshly pressed grey suit and navy tie he kept at Dean’s place, _in case of emergencies_. The phrase that had earned him a week of relentless ridicule, despite the fact that he could swear that Dean’s heart had picked up its pace ever so slightly when Castiel mentioned he wanted to leave a few things of his own in the apartment. Dean chooses a more casual ensemble: a dark plaid button down and just-tight-enough denim. Despite the fact that he looked damn good in a suit, if Castiel had his way, Dean could shirk dress code and dress like this everyday, the soft familiar fabrics, despite their simplicity, looking like _him._ Hand in hand, they walk towards their destination, entering the bar smelling of stale beer and future mistakes, Dean’s heaven and Castiel’s hell.

 

    After a shot of liquid courage each at the bar, the two muster up the bravery to turn to the overly enthused waves coming from the three stageside tables. Their coworkers are split between three informal factions. The first table, all impeccably dressed in pristine and pressed suits, nursing what could safely be assumed to be their first and only drinks of the night. By the book field agents; loyal, faithful grunts. The next table were laughing far too loud at what could be presumed to be an off-colour joke delivered by Fergus MacLeod, currently the leader of the Records Management Division who, rumour had it, was gunning for a promotion, warmed by the laughter of whatever lackeys were aligned with him that week. As Castiel saw the distinctly heart-shaped eyes MacLeod was already beaming towards Dean, he prayed he would make it through the night without wielding his angel blade.

 

    And the last table, the table at which Dean and Castiel were relieved to see two empty chairs, were their people: the misfits. They included Ash, a “reformed” computer hacker who was the biggest get for the Information and Technology Branch since ENIAC. Ash was currently engrossed by what was sure to be a scandalous story from Pamela Barnes, the best criminal profiler currently employed by the United States government. The two men sat down just as her story was ending, something about a very creative use of a light saber that turned each of her captive audience crimson in a flash. Including the assistant director, Bobby Singer, who was all too relieved to have been saved from embarrassment by Dean and Castiel’s arrival.

 

    “You boys made it! Give em hell in Exeter?”

 

    Castiel pauses for a moment, confuse. “No, vampires are not sent to hell. They are sent to Purga-”

 

    “Yeah Bobby, we gave em hell.” Dean interrupts, saving Castiel from himself once again.

 

xxxxx

 

    The night slowly progresses. More familiar faces arrive, and some depart before the singing begins. Gabriel, a late arrival, manages to get the entire table of teacher’s pets to leave with one incredibly filthy joke. Dean finds himself in a much enjoyed debate with Anna, admiring her fierceness and independent thinking. After Dean’s second “touche” directed towards Anna and their third shot pounded back together, Castiel migrates over to their table, having spent the better half of the past hour in an esoteric conversation with Bobby about the cultural differentiation in spectral hauntings.

 

    Anna is flushed, smiling in Dean’s direction when Castiel abruptly makes the announcement. “We have our next assignment by the way. Demons in Georgia.”

 

    A few sheets to the wind, Dean slaps his hand down on the table. “Look at that! Charlie Daniels Band was right after all!”

 

    “I do not understand that reference.”

 

    “Devil Went Down To Georgia?”

 

    Crickets’ entire lifespans elapsed in the time between the explanation and response.

 

    “I still don’t get it.”

 

    “I swear Cas, one of these days I’m going to trade you in for a newer model. Someone who can appreciate my razor sharp wit.” Dean runs his fingers through Castiel’s hair roughly and lands a sloppy kiss on his cheek.

 

    “I am nearly certain that if I _did_ get that reference, I would be able to assert with full confidence that the contrary is true.”

 

xxxxx

 

    The blue and red lights flash through the black of the darkened bar, commencing the shift in the night’s festivities. The singing begins with everyone’s favourite extrovert Gabriel bleating the lyrics of Bow Wow Wow’s “I Want Candy.” One of MacLeod’s minions follows with an inspired rendition of Talking Heads' “Psycho Killer.” Castiel’s heart begins to frantically beat again when Anna loses two layers of clothing while flawlessly covering Fiona Apple’s “Criminal.” Especially because she seems to keep making eye contact with the man sitting to his left. As she leaves the stage to cheers and Dean makes his way up, Castiel fears the one-upping he is sure this night will unfold to be. _Envy is a deadly sin,_ he reminds himself, trying to cast aside the feelings of insecurity brought by long red hair and feminine curves. He braces himself for Dean to return her flirtation tit-for-tat, shocked by his song choice. A song that has, as far as he knows, never bounded from the Impala’s speakers.

 

    The sweet disco sounds of Tavares flood the bar. Dean, unafraid of the all-too likely boos he will earn, croons and swoons, not once having to look at the screen for the lyrics of “Heaven Must Be Missing An Angel,” never breaking eyesight with Castiel. He bows and takes his seat once more, resting his hand interlaced with Castiel’s own on his thigh, as if to say there is only one angel in whom he is interested.

 

    At two in the morning with the entirety of a bottle of tequila running through his bloodstream, MacLeod decides a night is not complete without an over-the-top declaration of love. He orders the entire bar to be silent, to listen to the “best bloody love song ever written,” cry-screaming the lyrics of “I Want to Know What Love Is” in Dean’s general direction.

 

    “Well, Foreigner is now ruined. Forever.” The two tip their server generously and leave, audible Scottish protests trapped behind the bar’s door.

 

xxxxx

 

    Dean and Cas kiss the entire cab ride home.

 

xxxxx

 

    The next morning, Dean wakes to a twangy guitar and southern drawl at much too loud a volume. While he had not earned the honour of being the drunkest person at the bar the night before, he had been a contender, and he is far too hungover to deal with this nonsense. It takes a moment to place it, to find his tormentor. Through bloodshot eyes Dean recognizes Cas’s outline, standing at the edge of the bed, clapping along to the beat.

 

 _Johnny, rosin up your bow and play your fiddle hard._  
_'Cause Hell's broke loose in Georgia and the Devil deals the cards._  
_And if you win you get this shiny fiddle made of gold,_  
_But if you lose the devil gets your soul._

 

    As he throws whatever he can get while still lying down in bed - pillows, his phone, a book - Dean manages to mutter - voice harsh and dry -  through parched lips. “You are the devil Cas.”

 

    “How can that be? I neither play the fiddle nor am I currently in the Peach State. As much as I’d like to be, considering it is already 7 A.M. and we have at least nine hours of driving ahead of us. Your reference to this song yesterday made me curious. Catchy.”

 

    Begrudgingly getting out of bed to take on the new day, Dean gives Cas a look that would rival the Father of Murder himself.


	7. Brunswick, Georgia (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another two-part adventure. This first part is more fluffy (although there is mentions/thoughts of homophobic violence, so heads up on that) but it sets up the case. Next one will be more action-y, and will feed heavily into the overarching plot I have planned for this. Also, some serious smut here, so NSFW.

* * *

 

 

     The Brunswick police station stands in the glow of a burnt orange sunset. Dean puts the Impala into park just as shifts seem to be turning over. One rotation of officers on their way out as another make their way in for the night. Dean hastily redresses in the driver’s seat, waiting until the last possible moment to put on the outer layers of his “monkey suit” as he so endearingly liked to put it. The intensity of the Georgia heat has left a light mist of sweat where his hairline meets his neck. In an act of self-discipline for which he believes his employers should formally commend him, Castiel casts asides his desire to drag his tongue along its saltiness as they leave the car, moving in tandem towards the brick building.

    They arrive at a reception desk of sorts, greeted by a woman whose hair seems to defy both the laws of physics and the current humidity sticking to the air.

    “Well, look at you two handsome devils.” The compliment is plural but the woman’s gaze is directly, solely, on Dean. “I take it ya’ll are the feds we’ve been waiting on?”

    Dean offers a polite chuckle, ever the hit amongst the cougar crowd.

    “Right you are darling. I’m Agent Mosely, this is my partner Agent Moscone. Now that we know who runs this place, can you show me where I can pour myself a nice cup of coffee and where we can get set up?” The request is made with a smile that could melt the most frigid of hearts.

    Margaret leads them to a conference room, stumbling over her words if not over head over heels in love with Dean, like dozens of Margarets before her. As the two men follow, Castiel delivers a soft punch into the shoulder of his partner, ever the shameless flirt.

  
xxxxx

 

    The two agents get settled in the small but accommodating room. Margaret brews another batch of coffee for them, the carafe coincidentally overfilling with water just as Dean is shedding his jacket. Castiel quickly unpacks and sifts through the files from the cardboard box at the center of the table, deciding to be the bigger man and ignore the receptionist’s full-on swooning.

  
    She makes idle chit-chat with Dean, a clear pretense for figuring out if he’s attached. She mentions a few local spots worth checking out. He asks her where to get the best peach cobbler in town after singing her praises for filling him with much-needed caffeine after a long ride down from D.C. The woman sees her opening and asks the inevitable question if _Mrs. Mosely_ minds him being on the road so often.

    Dean doesn’t have the chance to come up with a lie. Because when Margaret sees the picture of the first bloodied corpse Castiel has just aggressively pinned on the room’s bulletin board, she suddenly remembers she has paperwork she needs to finish.

 

    “That’s one way to deal with the competition,” Dean snarkily comments.

 

    “I’m nothing if not resourceful,” Cas responds, a sly smile finding its way across his face.

  
xxxxx

 

         “Five corpses over the course of the last month,” Cas states matter of factually, fastening the crime scene photographs as he speaks. Each beaten severely - four with multiple broken bones, one with a collapsed lung. Each found with strange burns covering their body, no traces of accelerant found at the scene. Cause of death for each victim was a single stab wound to the chest.”

 

     Castiel continues to post the gruesome gallery, this time, close-ups of the knife wounds as taken by the coroner. They both recognize the distinct pattern of the blade immediately.

 

    “ _Angel blade?_ So what are we dealing with here - an overzealous hunter who somehow managed to get their hands on a little something outta the angelic arsenal? Cas, the meatsuits took quite a beating, and that’s too bad, but I’m not exactly ready to cry a river for five less demons we gotta deal with.”

 

    And then Castiel posts a final photograph, a strange symbol painted in blood at the last crime scene.

 

    “That’s not…” Dean hesitates, the symbol not quite right.

 

    “An angel-banishing sigil. Or at least, it would have been, had the demon been able to finish it.”

 

    Dean pauses, choosing his next words very carefully. “I might be a hypocrite, because, Lord knows I’m a fan of your rebellious streak, sure, but one of those winged dicks following his own orders? Could be messy.” He walks to stand next to Castiel, close enough that their shoulders are touching. “So we’ve got what … a rogue angel on our hands?”

 

    “And no idea what they are going to do next.”

  
xxxxx

 

    Three hours and several more cups of coffee keeping him awake, Dean is ready to throw in the towel. They’ve gone over all the victims’ profiles (that is, the human victims, Dean’s not quite ready to give the five sets of black eyes no longer walking the earth that status). They’ve begun to draw up theories about which of Castiel’s kin could be responsible. It’s when Castiel adds the thirtieth name to an already exhaustive list that Dean’s eyes officially glaze over, no longer able to process any new information the angel is giving him.

 

    “You need to sleep,” Castiel acknowledges as the slightest amount of drool begins to collect at the edge of Dean’s lip.

 

    “Among other things, yeah, sleep is something us humans generally need. Can we call it a night? Check out the last crime scene first thing tomorrow morning?”

 

    “Of course Dean. Let’s relocate to the hotel - I can continue with my deductions while you sleep.”

 

    “Cas, you sure know how to talk dirty, you know that?”

 

    Once Dean has collected himself from the rapturous laughter that overtakes him when he looks to Castiel’s nonplussed face, they collect a few copies of pertinent evidence, and hit the road.

 

    When they pull into the parking lot of the Seabreeze Motel, an unspoken agreement moves Castiel towards the front desk while Dean waits in the Impala, out of view. Even when their time together was purely platonic, a professional partnership and nothing more, they had raised their fair share of eyebrows by requesting a room with only a single bed. Dean recalls how the first time was purely accidental - some no-name town in Idaho where Castiel insisted, since sleep was unnecessary for him, that it was foolish and wasteful. That had led to a strained conversation on the importance of appearances, Dean explaining to the clueless angel where hotel clerks’ minds inevitably went when they assumed two adult bodies would be sharing one bed. Castiel insisted their sleeping arrangements should be of little interest to anyone. Dean tried his very best to be patient with Castiel. But the angel’s blase indifference about assumptions about their sexual orientation left him unsettled, questioning why he so desperately wanted motel workers across the country to be convinced of his unwavering heterosexuality.

 

     _Perhaps because he had begun to have doubts about it himself, doubts he seemed to be acting on, whether he was ready to or not._ Dean couldn’t remember when he felt the shift - when the touches first seemed to linger, the glances seemed to pan downward, when he first admitted to Cas how important he was to him. But he does remember when he could first admit to himself that he felt something very real for the angel, something decidedly beyond the realm of agent and ally. It was that case in Van Nuys, the details of which had been obscured by the striking clarity Dean felt as Cas had shown Dean what he was made of. He remembers how the angel was willing to sacrifice his own existence, trusting fully in Dean’s instinct. He remembers how Cas confessed to the way in which Dean had changed him, fundamentally reoriented what he thought was worth fighting for.

 

     It was only weeks later that Dean first acted on the long-ignored impulse to kiss him. How that kiss, momentary and fleeting, changed the course of both men, eschewing the fates they both believed awaited them behind white picket fences and pearly gates.

 

   It is not doubt or angst or insecurity or self-loathing that is keeping Dean in this car. He has, more or less, come to terms with his particular integer on the Kinsey Scale. It is the glare of the neon red light beaming from the Jesus Saves sign across the dark night sky. Their silent agreement - that Cas got the room keys while he waited - wasn’t about them - it was about others. Because they had been reminded on more than one occasion that public acknowledgment of their relationship, not to mention public displays of affection, were rarely looked upon fondly in the Bible Belt and below. Dean could take a sucker punch from a homophobe without breaking a sweat. But the pain in Castiel’s voice when he insisted, when he pleaded with the fire and brimstone crowd that being queer was not an express ticket to hell? The way he was near tears when they wouldn’t accept that heteronormativity was an invention of man, not God? That was something Dean simply didn’t have the strength to suffer.

 

    Cas wiggles the room key between his fingers as he walks back towards the Impala, prompting Dean to retrieve their bags from the backseat. The bright light from the evangelical sign casts itself inside the room - like a runway to the bed. So as the heavy motel door closes, the two advance to the second part of their unspoken agreement - to promptly defile the room with as much lewd behaviour as either of their bodies can handle.

 

    Dean has barely dropped the bags on the floor before Castiel has his fingers clasped tightly around his collar, tugging him towards the awaiting mattress, each kicking off his shoes along the way. But a day on the road has Dean longing for a different venue for the Olympic-caliber effort he is about to make to get Cas off. And so he wraps the blue tie sloppily hanging from the angel’s neck around his fist, pulling him towards the washroom.

 

    When their feet have landed on the soft pink tiles of the bathroom floor, Dean offers Cas a challenge. The words “race you” have left lips no sooner than the angel is shedding each layer of clothing currently covering his form. The acoustics of the bathroom are soon resounding with both men’s laughter as they fumble to remove socks and belts, as they fiddle with buttons and zippers. Castiel is about to hook the waistband of his boxers when Dean claims victory, even going so far as to lift the imaginary trophy he supposes he has won over his head.

 

    “You are a sore winner,” Castiel protests as he kicks his last garment away.

 

    “Is that a promise?” Dean answers in retort, cocky enough to wink at the angel.

 

    “You better believe it.”

 

    Dean hopes Castiel doesn’t hear the audible gulp he takes next.

  
xxxxx

 

    It’s been too long since Dean has had a proper make-out session. But as he and Castiel lunge down each other’s throats outside of the shower stall, he admits: it’s too nice to resign to his adolescence. At some point, however, he puts the proceedings on pause, asking Cas to “wait a minute” while he scampers, naked as the day he was born, towards one of their duffels. The other man shakes his head, not so much in disbelief at the antics as engrossed by them, turning on the shower just as Dean _skips_ back into the bathroom with the all-important container within his grasp. As Dean takes that final step back through the doorway, he loses himself in the sight of Cas, head bent backwards under the showerhead, water cascading over the stretches of his skin. It is as if the space transforms into a magnetic field, the iron flowing through Dean’s blood pulling him towards its attraction.

 

    The space itself is small, made smaller by the two bodies filling it, forcing a sort of intimate closeness neither man rebukes. Castiel tucks his pinkies under Dean’s earlobes, his palms pressed firmly against Dean’s cheeks, holding their faces steady together as their tongues dart recklessly in and out of one another’s mouths. Dean runs his hands down the straight edges of Castiel’s trunk, feeling the familiar surge of excitement beginning to build in his belly as his fingers pass over the impossibly sharp hipbones. He finally rests his hands at the small of Cas’s back, fingers dipping ever so slightly below Cas’s tailbone.

 

    The whole scene exists along that perfect line of romantic and ravaged. Dean praises the merciful friction he finds as his hardness is pressed against Cas’s hard abdomen. The sounds filling the room alone are filling him with a longing need to be closer to the other man - the sweet sprinkling of the water waltzing with the smacks of lips feasting greedily on one another. As a small growl is released from Cas’s throat as Dean’s thigh presses against his stiffness in precisely the right way, Dean knows this session will be more of a sprint than a marathon.

 

    He tries to reign in his arousal, pulling his face away from the other man’s. But what his eyes take in is no help: dark strands of hair plastered across Cas’s forehead, lips engorged and full, short, staggered breaths forcing themselves from his lungs, the droplets of water merging into streams that run down each magnificent feature of his form, one after another. The image has Dean’s mind desperately searching for language that can express the feeling flooding him - the seamless blend of his body’s physiological want with the fullness of his spirit. His vocabulary fails him, for no words seem quite right to encapsulate what he feels for the man he feels blessed to be holding at this moment. But Dean does not heed to his hesitancy, shyly whispering his best into the other man’s ear.

 

    “You are everything to me.”

  
xxxxx

 

    It turns out Dean is a more effective speaker than he thought. For his simple words are met with a crushing kiss, ended only as Castiel forces his body to turn, Dean planting his palms against the tiled wall to keep steady. Dean is shielded from the water by the man covering his form from behind. The angel place his hands over Dean’s, letting his tongue lather across his chiseled jaw, landing in a space of his neck that rises and falls every time Dean manages to take a breath. His mouth stays in that spot while his hands depart, the familiar _click_ of a bottle preparing Dean for what comes next. A distinct slickness, different, superior to the water crashing against Castiel, finds itself wrapped around his throbbing cock, courtesy of Castiel’s eager hand. It is intense and frantic and almost too much too quick, but all Dean can manage to ask for in this moment is more. It is a request Castiel is all too happy to meet, his other hand slipping between Dean, the same slickness gently circling the breach. Before long, he is intoxicated by dual sensations: a strong, steady hand pumping him while the finger of another finds itself gently pushing inside him. The finger, long and slender, seemed to have been designed to find the spot buried deep inside Dean that fills him with a bliss he curses himself for neglecting for so long. The motions are deliberate and work as one to wreck Dean, whimpering the divine man’s name as his orgasm leaves him a trembling mess of limbs that no longer seem willing to hold up his weight. Just as he is sure he is going to fall, he feels two hands, hands which had just devastated him in such an extraordinary fashion, grip him tightly, reassuring words working their way softly to his ears.

 

    “I’ve got you.”

 

    Dean doesn’t respond, still too overcome by bliss, but the thought manages, somehow, to form inside his mind. _You really do._

  
xxxxx

 

    After Dean has recovered enough to show his gratitude in a decidedly active way (one where his mouth was far too preoccupied to have to worry about words), the two find themselves ready for the warmth. Except that the ploy of Castiel staying in the room on his lonesome has led them to a particularly uncomfortable predicament: the room was only stocked with one towel. While each of the shivering men tries to offer it to one another, each declaring himself to be fine, they ultimately decide that sharing is caring. Castiel, having lived through centuries of chivalry, insists Dean goes first. Dean accepts the gesture, only to press the fabric into Castiel’s skin, rubbing up his calves and thighs, brushing it against his stomach, running it over his shoulders and chest. When he wipes away the last droplets lining Cas’s face, he is met with lips, happy, secure, content. Dean wraps the now damp towel around his waist, warmed by all that kiss said.

  
xxxxx

  
    Castiel knows Dean is exhausted beyond belief when he only makes it ten minutes into _Dr. Sexy_ before dozing off, snoring softly into the angel’s shoulder. After he turns the television off, he spends a few minutes running his fingers across Dean’s forehead, kissing it gently before he leaves the bed. He shuffles through the documents he had brought with him from the station, typing each victim’s name into Dean’s laptop, trying to put together some sort of narrative of why these people were possessed - and by whom they were used. While they vary amongst race and sex and age, there is a consistent thread: they all lived alone. And not the sort of “alone” where they were social butterflies who just sought a certain degree of independence for balance, but loner alone. All unremarkable, under-the-radar folks, with no social media presence, with few listings showing up in search engines other than work email addresses and DMV photos. None were suspects to any recently committed crimes - no reports were filed that would lead anyone to believe that there was something hellish luring inside any of these individuals. It was as if the demons were running from someone, something, and were desperately trying to get off the grid. But _from what? From whom?_


	8. Brunswick, Georgia (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chapter on angels and demons. Some graphic-ish depictions of violence. This chapter starts to hint more directly towards the overall arc of the story - some problems we have introduced here are not done and over with this chapter's end. More action and angsty. See some notes at the end of the chapter for my meta.

* * *

 

 

     The first thing Dean notices when he wakes up the next morning is the large puddle of saliva he has left on the pillow, much to his horror, as he _insists_ he doesn’t drool when he’s zonked out.

 

     The next thing he notices is that his body seems to be very thankful that he allowed it more than his requisite four. His muscles, for once, do not meet the rising sun with agony.

 

     The third thing Dean notices is the absence of his angel.

 

    “Damn it, Cas,” he mumbles as he works his way towards the small table, littered with evidence arranged with no apparent rhyme or reason, Castiel’s notes scrawled in the margins. Different classes of demons are listed on one, half the names already struck. Not knowing where to begin, Dean turns his attention to the laptop, screen black but open. He presses on a random key, the action met with the appearance of a library website - _Bibliotheca Alexandrina_. A scrap of paper adjacent, missing a corner. A pen he is certain Castiel used to write a call number. Dean stumbles to find his phone, calling a number of his own, inhaling a deep, irritated breath as each ring accumulates.

 

    “Hello, Dean,” Castiel finally answers, tone hushed.

 

    Dean has no time for pleasantries, seeking confirmation to his suspicions where the angel is currently situated.

 

    “Egypt,” Castiel whispers, as if there is nothing out of the ordinary about taking a field trip to the Middle East in the middle of the night. “At the library so I really shouldn’t be conversing right now…”

 

    “I’ll say - the roaming charges you’re racking up on this phone call alone! Cas - Why the hell are you halfway around the world?”

 

    “I needed to borrow a book.”

 

    There are ten solid seconds of silence, each man vexed by the other’s confusion. Dean finally finds the words to express his frustration. “And you didn’t think to, I don’t know, just bring it back here with you?”

 

    Castiel makes his father proud with his response. “That would be stealing - it is a very rare item, it seemed wrong to just - how to you put it - _zap away_ with it.”

 

    “Listen Cas, I’m really loving this ethical debate. Top notch stuff. But if you’re not back here in five minutes, I’m leaving without you, and I’m not telling you where I’m going.”

 

    “Dean, you need not lose your patience,” Castiel remarks, suddenly only inches away, each still holding their phones up to their ears. Under his other arm rests bound parchment.

 

    “Wonder what the library fine for that’s going to be,” Dean jokes as he puts his phone away. Castiel follows suit.

 

    Once again, the attempt at sarcasm evades the angel. “Dean this is a one of a kind item. No amount of currency would compensate. It is irreplaceable.”

 

    Dean decides to let his incapacity for humour off easy, this time. Because he needs answers, and he isn’t sure how much pointless banter he is capable of in this pre-caffeinated state. He leans his head on Castiel’s shoulder, softly expressing his next inquiry. “So what would possess a librarian-fearing angel of the Lord to swipe it?”

 

    An ecstatic grin finds itself growing across the angel’s face. “I’ve been reading it all night. It’s a very old text - older than I am. Contains the names of angels I’ve been fortunate enough to never meet.”

 

    Dean yawns, yearning for coffee before discussing ancient angelic texts, but Castiel’s enthusiasm keeps him conversing. “Now Cas, your extended family aren’t exactly my favourites, but we’ve ganked a few of those douches in our time. What’s so different about these dudes?”

 

    “These are the angels that fell. With him. And I fear one may be responsible for the havoc we are investigating.”

 

    Dean exhales a long sigh. “Is it bad that I’m just longing for a good old-fashioned salt and burn? These heaven and hell cases - they just … don’t sit right with me.”

 

    Castiel places a reassuring hand on Dean’s bare shoulder. “Perhaps next time. But really, this is quite urgent - we should get started, sooner rather than later.”

 

    “After coffee?” Dean puts on his best dough eyes.

 

    “On the way?” Castiel compromises, a man on his mission.

 

    “You’re lucky you’re cute,” Dean says in an annoyed huff, stomping off to the bathroom to prepare for the day ahead.

 

xxxxx

 

 

    The last drop of the bitter black coffee Castiel had procured from him at the gas station hits the back of Dean’s throat just as they stand outside the county coroner’s office. He tosses the paper cup into a nearby trashcan, raising his arms in victory when it makes it into the receptacle. “Nothing but net.”

 

    “I do not understand - where is the net?” Castiel half-heartedly inquires, not breaking his gait towards the front doors.

 

    “It’s a say - you know what, forget it. I’ll explain it later. Game faces on,” Dean responds, finding himself actually eager to investigate the cooler of corpses. The two quickly flash their badges towards the front desk attendant, clearly more interested in game of Candy Crush they have going than escorting them downstairs. They are guided by a series of arrows down two flights of stairs to a frigid basement.

 

    Dean knocks on the cool glass to get the attention of the coroner, a woman who is about to draw her scalpel across a cadaver’s chest. _Dead bodies made that way by cancer or cholesterol, how novel,_ Dean thinks. She makes her way over to the door, removing the latex covering her hands before extending one to greet the men.

 

    “I presume you two are my visitors from Washington?”

 

    “Correct. I’m Agent Mosely, this is my partner, Agent Moscone. We’re here to take a look at the latest victim in the … string of unusual deaths you’ve been noticing."

 

    “Right this way boys.” She escorts them over to one of the identical silver drawers, pulling out the mutilated body.

 

    “Have to say, I’ve never seen anything like this. All of them had these kinds of burns in the strangest places. Then there’s the injuries - two fractures in the wrist, broken femur, punctured lung. Inconsistent with any sort of weapon I can think of. No DNA, no indication of what could have done it. And then, there’s this…” Her fingers hover over the entry wound, right above the heart. “One clean stab. No hesitation. Doesn’t match any knife I’ve ever seen. I have to say - I have seen some weird stuff in my time, but these, these attacks just don’t make any sense to me.”

 

    “Would you mind if we had just a few minutes alone? Your reports were very thorough - thank you for that. Sometimes it just helps if I can - we can - look at each of the injuries individually.”

 

    “Of course. Holler if you need any help.”

 

    “Thank you.”

 

    Gloved hands inspect the remains, taking only minutes to confirm their suspicions. Castiel passes his hands over the body, confirming to his partner it is holy water that left the severe burns over the victim’s skin. Dean reviews the injuries, using his own experience to recognize that they are the effect of being making contact with ceilings and cement. The precision of the scar across the man’s chest makes it clear that this is not the work of a novice.

 

    “No one in heaven would be capable of such purposeless cruelty,” Castiel mutters as he closes the steel drawer, making his way towards the door quickly. The words are sure, sturdy, absolute, but Dean swears he can hear the slightest tinge of uncertainty in the angel’s voice.

    

xxxxx

 

 

    The drive to the most recent crime scene is largely silent. Dean does not put on music. Castiel no longer eagerly details all he has learned in his studies abroad. They are only a few blocks from the house when Dean moves his hand from the steering wheel to hold Castiel’s.

 

    “Listen, Cas. If this is too hard - too personal, we could always ask Singer to replace us. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind."

 

    Castiel fights the desire he has to have a full-on tantrum, to chastise Dean for treating him like he is an infant, incapable of managing his emotions. He wants to lash out, to have an outburst, to insist he is strong and capable and unmoved by the case. But as Cas turns and sees the utter empathy looking back at him, that desire vanishes. “It is hard,” he admits. “But I think we are the pair best suited for the job. I want to finish the job, Dean.” He pulls the hunter’s hand, up to his lips, leaving an appreciative kiss.

 

    And so the two survey the damage within the non-descript bungalow, witnessing the struggle that has clearly occurred. There are several large dents in the drywall, situated higher than simple pushes and shoves could accomplish. They carefully avoid the shattered glass coated in crimson that coats the floor. They stand together before the half-finished sigil, wondering by whom it was disrupted. The rest of the house stands in such strong contrast to this scenery. The dishes in the drying rack. The freshly laundered clothing folded within the basket next to the pristinely made bed. The dustless dresser. Signs of a totally, utterly human existence. They share a glance that speaks to the thought passing through both of their minds. _What kind of demon lives like this? What is going on?_

 

xxxxx

 

 

    They fall into a rhythm over the sequence of days that follows. Days are spent at the station, reviewing the crimes of the county, hoping to find any semblance of a lead. Nights consumed by lore at the motel, with Castiel flapping away to various parts of the world to collect more. Dean thinks of making a joke about frequent flier miles to him, but he doesn’t. This doesn’t feel like the time for jokes. They are no closer to a sense of the sort of demon or angel they are seeking.

 

    They have moved through the records of murders to suicides to assaults to breaking and entering. They are seriously considering Brunswick’s worst jaywalkers when they miraculously catch a break. Their studious research interrupted by an uproar happening as a young man is exiting an interview room. They peek out of their little conference room as he is being escorted from the premises.

 

    “My blood will be on your hands!” he screams at the officer, nonplussed by the declaration.

 

    “What’s the deal with him?” Dean asks, cutting the officer’s retreat back to his desk.

 

    “Just paranoid guy. Insists someone’s watching him. But he’s got no proof. I told him, buddy, I can’t exactly issue a restraining order against a feeling.”

 

   Dean forces a chuckle out, as if to say that he’s been there. If there’s one thing he’s learned since beginning with the Bureau, it’s that you don’t make many friends by making local forces feel inadequate. So he adopts his most unassuming tone when he asks, “Got the guy’s name? Maybe we can tail him for a bit, just to see if there’s anything to it.”

 

    “Aren’t you busy with that unsolved case they sent you down here for? Doesn’t seem like you’ve been able to make much more of it than we have,” the officer responds, disdain dripping from his voice.

 

     _Ignore it_ , Dean’s mind demands. He flashes a friendly smile when he admits, “It’s a long shot, but who knows? Could be connected. No stone unturned.”

 

    “If you say so,” the officer responds, giving Dean a copy of the man’s address.

 

xxxxx

 

    The Impala pulls up in front of a cookie-cutter apartment building. “Steve Barnes, 3F,” Dean says, turning to Castiel. “You ready?” The two open their doors in unison, casually walking up to the front of the building - the door left slightly ajar by a brick. A post-it note pressed against the glass lets them know this is not the work of the murderer, but Fiona Joyce, apartment 2C, awaiting a delivery. They both shrug off the apparent lack of concern for safety by the young man’s neighbours, casually scaling the steps up to the third floor.

 

    Castiel lightly knocks. Hearing several locks click open, the door opens only enough to see two panicked chocolate eyes dart out from over a chain. “What do you want?’ a voice calls, coated in alarm. “I’ll do anything!”

 

    “Listen buddy, we just want to talk. We heard you down at the station. We think there’s probably more to your story than what we’ve heard. Can we come in?”

 

    “No way. Not with the body count. Not with him.”

 

    “What do you have against my partner?” Dean inquires, trying to keep calm as Castiel balls his fists.

 

    “Our kinds don’t exactly … play well together.” Eyes that were just brown fill black, leading Dean to instinctively move towards the knife next to his gun. “I’ll talk. But just you.”

 

    The two agents share exasperated stares, having an entire conversation without speaking. _Are you crazy,_ Castiel’s eyes call out. _What other choice do we have?_ Dean’s respond. _This is insane. It’s against Bureau policy and just plain stupid._ Castiel crosses his arms just below his chest. _What other leads do we have? What other choices?_ Dean pleads in return. _Fine. But I’m not happy about. I will wait. Right here._

 

    “Okay, I am coming in. My partner is going to wait in the hallway.”

 

    Tentatively, the door opens.

 

xxxxx

 

    Dean walks into the utterly ordinary bachelor pad. All save the giant bloody sigil painted one one of its walls. “Love what you’ve done with the place,” Dean jests.

 

    “You laugh, but I’m not taking any chances. Not after what happened to …” Steve stops.

 

    “You knew him?”

 

    “We - we were a community. Not the sort that get together for barbeques or trivia. But we were all in it together. We were careful. Kept a low-profile. Someone - something - is going around, taking us out. Thought it was a hunter, but how? None of us hurt anyone. We were all just happily living out our days as far from Hell as possible. But then - it just keeps happening.”

 

    Dean looks at the man with disbelief. “So what, you were all in some kind of - demon AA? Fighting the good fight against your own twistedness one day at a time?”

 

    “What’s the saying humans have got - we’ve all got our demons? Suppose it’s true, in our case.”

 

    Dean shakes his head in equal measures intrigue and irritation. “So what makes you think you’re next on this big bad’s to kill list?”

 

    “I can’t explain it, but I’ve felt - I feel like someone’s watching. Like someone’s been stalking my every move. Ever since Pete - that was the last guy it got, Pete - ever since Pete got killed.

 

    Dean tries his best to keep a straight face. It’s just that he can’t really comprehend how his life has come to this place. The place where he is in love with an angel and about to offer protection to a demon.

 

    “Why do you want to help? I mean, I am happy to take it, really, but I can’t imagine you playing bodyguard to a great-great-great grandchild of Eve.”

 

    Dean smirks. “Got a feeling there’s bigger fish to catch than some quivering barely demon. No offense.”

 

    “None taken.”

 

    “Then why don’t we make this a real melting pot, invite my partner in.”

 

    “He won’t kill me?”

 

    “I promise, he can restrain himself. At least for tonight.”

 

xxxxx

 

    Day has long given into night, the only disturbance thus far an argument about whose turn it is to take out the trash from the apartment next to Steve’s. As the clock above the mantel moves to three AM, Dean’s eyes are battling the desire to sleep. His head just begins to drop slightly when there is a blunt kick to the door, the sound echoing throughout the apartment.

 

    “It’s here,” Steve whispers, lifelessly.

 

    The door manages to withstand two more kicks before it shatters like glass against a wall five feet deep into the apartment. Heavy steps clod their way through the living room, towards the three men, each standing at his station. Steve only has a second to identify him, but it only takes that long. “Adramelech,” he grumbles, just as he is flung roughly into a bookcase.

 

    He looks more like a politician than a soldier. A well-dressed one at that. He is attired in an exquisitely tailored dark grey suit that puts both Dean’s and Castiel’s to shame; his silk tie a swirl of blues and greens and purples. Castiel closes his eyes and scans through his memory, recalling a text with pertinent details about Adramelech. _Worshipped as a sun god by the Assyrians. One of Lucifer’s loyal legion cast down to Hell with him by Michael. Not good. Very not good._ Castiel is still lost in thought when one of the dark angel’s patent leather shoes passes over a barely perceptible stain of oil. His hand moves forward to throw Dean into a wall, hard enough to knock him out. But not before Dean manages to throw the lighter he has lit behind his back with precision.

 

    The fallen angel finds himself trapped behind the flames of holy fire, Castiel fighting his urge to immediately run to Dean’s side to interrogate the creature.

 

    “Who are you?” he demands.

 

    “Your little demon friend wasn’t lying.”

 

    “Why are you here? Why hunt your own kind?”

 

    “You insult me, Castiel. You, pitiful creature that you may be, and I - we share far more in common than this filth. These vile beasts had one purpose: to do our bidding. Then we have this lot, who refuse. They are a nuisance, a bug that must be squashed under a boot. Team Satan is a much more formidable foe when we don’t have these pathetic excuses of evil walking around.”

 

    Castiel begins to ask another question just as the glass of the adjacent aquarium shatters, the water slowly flooding the carpet, extinguishing the flame. Adramelech makes a play for Dean’s unconscious body, catalyzing Castiel to charge him, grabbing him from behind, his angel blade about to slice across his neck. The fallen angel flees the vessel just as the blade crosses over the skin, collapsing to the floor.

 

    It is the first thing Dean sees as his eyes open.

 

    As Castiel runs to his partner, he is met with a question he cannot answer.

 

    “What the hell?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So something I really wish the show had done was feature more fallen angels - evil and otherwise - throughout the series. Especially in season five, because I think they would have made very compelling side villains to Lucifer - those who loyally fell with him who are still loyal. Beings he still sees as subordinate but not as unworthy. Just think that would be an interesting dynamic to explore.
> 
> Andramelech is a demon within Judeo-Christian belief, a fallen angel according to Milton and a sun deity of the Assyrians. He's often associated with the peacock (hence the colouring of his tie), and is president of the high council of demons. There's this really great short story by Robert Silverberg called Basileus where the main character, Cunningham, can commune angels through his computer (was written in 1982). A description Cunningham finds of Adramelech is that he is "the enemy of God, greater in ambition, guile and mischief than Satan. A fiend more curst — a deeper hypocrite." So not exactly the sort of dude you want to be unprepared to meet.


	9. Nashville, Tennessee (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A case about ghosts! A chapter about being haunted! A cameo by everyone's least favourite paranormal investigators!

* * *

 

      It had been a week since they left Georgia, the open case still taunting Dean some six hundred miles away in Nashville. Singer had thrown this one their way as a softball; Dean was disappointed to swing and miss yet again. Cas and him, even in those early days when they couldn’t get through a conversation without threatening to kill each other: this was something they always managed to do well. Their bodies always worked in harmony when fighting. And yet these past few days, within the whirlwind of digging through obituaries and disturbed graves, their movements seemed awkward, out of sync.

 

   “Simple salt and burn! He promised it was going to be a simple salt and burn!” Dean shouts out amidst the chaos to the man plastered on the floor beside him. The ethereal woman has transformed the room into a war zone. The heavy doors of the oak armoire frantically open and shut; the bedside lamp is pulled from the socket and hurled towards the opposing wall. Dean rises from the ground with the iron bar, launching himself at the apparition and missing, earning her undivided rage. She lunges towards the hunter as Castiel slides across the floor, retrieving the shotgun from underneath the bed, quickly shooting five rounds of rock salt towards the ghost, forcing her to flee to the Veil.

 

     As soon as the lights cease to flicker, Castiel finds him rushing to Dean’s side, his face bloodied by the battle. “Dean, are you okay?” Castiel asks, running his fingers absentmindedly across the gash aligned with Dean’s eyebrow. The hunter shirks from the touch, sending a coolness shooting through Castiel’s veins.

 

     “I’m fine. Flesh wound. Nothing to cry about. Let’s clean this place up.” Dean quickly forces himself to his feet, refusing to let on the fact that his back is killing him and that he is pretty sure he has dislocated his shoulder. Just like he refuses to look at Castiel from more than the corner of his eye, bearing invisible wounds himself. The soft percussion of pieces of broken glass being swept into one another is the only sound that pervades the room.

 

     The tension in the air has nothing to do with the ghost in Room 711, and everything to do with their last case. _Apparent rise in demonic activity - please investigate._ Those were the only details the two were given with the job. Reconnaissance - that was their initial purpose for going down to Georgia. And yet, when they arrived, it was as if they had inherited someone else’s assignment, way above their pay grade.

 

     There was something unsettling about it all - as if they had entered the battle with Adramelech after intermission, only for him to flee before the last act. They had stayed in town for a few days after the altercation, but with no results. The fallen angel had moved along, but it was still unclear as to _where_. And still less clear was _why_ \- a being like that, faithful to his leader for eons, doesn’t just take it upon himself to purge demons as a little pet project. And then, of course, there was the whole issue of _how_ \- Castiel insisted he should not have been earthside - that Raphael and Uriel had vanquished him alongside the rest of Lucifer’s faithful after the failure of the rebellion. The unsolved case hung over Dean’s head - it consumed once peaceful drives, haunted him when he managed to get to sleep.

 

     Dean knows he’s hardly being helpful with the clean-up, distracted by thoughts he can’t seem to shake and the pain coursing through his vertebrae. Castiel has managed to salvage what he can amongst the debris, carefully isolating the rest of the refuse. He has done it all without complaint, without forcing Dean to speak of what is occupying his mind. _He doesn’t deserve this_ , Dean tells himself silently, knowing that he is solely to blame for the growing distance between the two men over the past week. But he’s not ready to talk. Not yet.

 

     “I’m going to get cleaned up,” Dean says, gesturing towards the blood that is now caked along the side of his face.

 

     “Of course. Take your time,” Castiel responds, without a hint of judgment or frustration in his voice. Just concern and worry.

 

     Soon the basin is filled with warm water. Dean soaks the washcloth in it, rubbing it across his nose, circling it from forehead to chin and up again, staining the white fabric red. He drops it into the sink, his eyes locked down, watching his blood diffuse throughout the water. His fingers meld with the marble as he steadies his breath, preparing to attend to the misaligned shoulder. He inhales deeply, forcing his humerus upward, breathing relief when he hears it pop back into place. His body is tired, aching, longing for real, carefree rest - not dreams plagued by conspiracies yet unfolded. He quickly turns out the bathroom light when, in the mirror he glimpses a man he does not recognize in its reflection; its visage sending a now common unease to course through his veins.

 

     Most nights, Castiel would wait with Dean until soft snores filled the room, the telltale sign Dean was truly asleep. He’d then sneak from the bed, finding something to occupy his time: working on a case, reading lore, watching one of the seemingly infinite number of movies Dean insisted were classics. But lately - lately Castiel does not move from the bed in the night - he plays the part of the companion who too needs rest, whose body Dean might, despite his current state, unconsciously curl up to as he dreamed.

 

     Castiel is sitting quietly on the edge of the bed when Dean emerges, looking painstaking human in his threadbare t-shirt and jersey pajama pants. His eyes tentatively look towards Dean with the care of a doctor observing a patient. _He’s trying to diagnose me,_ Dean thinks, _he wants to know what’s wrong. Good luck with that buddy - I’m a case study in twisted and broken._ Dean sheds his flannel and jeans while he walks over to the other side of the bed, rolling on his side away from Cas, muttering a perfunctory “goodnight” before turning off the still bedside lamp Castiel has repaired, hoping to wrest away a few hours of shut eye before the spirit reappears.

 

     “Goodnight Dean,” Castiel whispers back past the lump in his throat, his voice solemn, heavy. He’d give himself to penance if he only knew his sin.

 

     The images run through Dean’s mind like film reels played out of sequence. Blood swirling around the grey granite beneath his feet. His knuckles swelling as his fists collide with the thick wooden door, over and over, in rhythm with a menacing heartbeat. The coolness of the night air passing over the candles flickering, the sole illumination within the darkness that pervades this sacred space. The strain of his lungs and throat as he screams a name over and over, the clanging of the iron locks mocking his resistance. The ground quaking beneath his feet, a fissure growing, a brilliant white light pouring upwards.

 

     The sheets are soaked with Dean’s sweat as he wakes from the nightmare, no longer trapped inside the old stone monastery, but rather, sobbing into the thin cotton shirt of the man lying next to him. “It’s okay Dean, I’m here. It was just a bad dream, none of it is real,” Castiel reassures him, cradling Dean’s against his chest. Uncertain if the other man is speaking fictions or truths, Dean still accepts the comfort of his words, allowing Castiel’s steady heartbeat to console him, to offer him some much needed solace.

 

     When Dean’s own breath has returned to its normal pace, when his eyes are no longer flooded with tears, the angel again speaks, whispering the question that has been consumed him for days.

 

     “Dean, did I do something wrong?”

 

     His is voice so tiny and timid that, try as he might, Dean cannot find any malice in it. He hadn’t offered Castiel any explanation for his own standoffishness, abusing his patience and affection. Every muscle in his body wants to run from the hurt he sees staring at him in eyes of muted blue. He wants to lash out, make accusations about invasiveness and interrogation. Dean wants to say things to devastate Castiel, to wreck the selfless love he feels passing from the angel’s spirit to his own through the light circles he is tracing on Dean’s shoulder. Dean feels himself instinctively pulled towards the many well-honed defense mechanisms he has in his arsenal.

 

     All of this is to say, that when Dean speaks, when he begins to offer explanation, he is doing more than filling the air with words, doing more than breaking silence. His heart is working miracles as he takes a first, tentative step to unlearn a lifetime of evasion, of closing himself off to others. Because this thing he has with Castiel, the bond that they share - it’s something worth bearing his soul for, no matter how hard that might be. And so he speaks. He speaks of the uncanny feeling he gets when he looks in the mirror, like the face staring back at him is a cheap facsimile. He speaks of the anger that courses through his veins when he thinks about how Adramelech got away. He speaks of how he feels disoriented in their world - how that unease is what makes him recoil from the tender touch of his partner. He speaks, and Castiel listens, and it helps. Soon they go to sleep, curled into one another, each part of their bodies in close contact. _There might be something bad unfurling in this world,_ Dean thinks, _but at least we have this. At least I have him._

 

xxxxx

 

     The white panel van pulls onto the exit of the highway. Trying to keep the camera steady as the vehicle nears its destination, Kenny hits record. As the red light is illuminated, the bespectacled man begins his monologue.

 

     “Greetings faithful followers. Ed here. The Facers are closing in on their next case - the Union Station Hotel in Nashville, Tennessee. We’ve done our homework - let’s catch you up.”

 

     The camera cuts to Harry, offering up the first piece of trivia. “Now the hotel itself is relatively new - the ribbon getting cut about thirty years ago. Its proprietors took a risk, because there have always been whispers about the spectres that seem tied to the area.”

 

     “Right, Harry. The ghosts were there before the first guests checked in, because the hotel occupies a century old railroad station.”

 

     The van comes to a stop. With gravitas, Harry flings open the door, the crew tumbling out without interruption. A massive limestone building, a castle rising amongst the mundane office architecture, now occupies the background.

 

     “Now I know what you’re thinking, viewers. This place hardly looks like the house on haunted hill, right? Well, appearances can be deceiving. Don’t judge a book by its cover. All that glitters isn’t gold,” Harry rambles as he walks backwards towards the hotel’s entrance, never breaking eye contact with the lens.

 

     Ed has the good sense to know that, if allowed, Harry could probably continue listing off cliches until they ran out of tape, steering the transcript back towards the specifics of the case. “Who is haunting the hotel, you ask? It’s a tricky question, as its history is dripping in blood. Take for instance, the numerous passengers who perished in this place in the horrific train wreck that occurred here in 1918. Travelers who never arrived or made it to their destinations, trapped in this waiting place for all eternity.” Harry retreats into the backdrop, opening the front door for Ed as he continues to speak. “Or the reports of the woman who replays her suicide from the third floor balcony, stuck in a loop. Who’s haunting this hotel? The better question may be … who isn’t?”

 

     The question has no sooner fallen from Ed’s lips than Kenny notices a familiar face in the background, standing alongside another man below a massive marble archway. He gestures for the hosts to see. Ed and Harry turn, each letting out sighs of disappointment when they put a name to the face. He comes from a world so similar one could mistake it for a counterfeit. They rush the fellow hunter, accosting him for stepping in on their territory.

 

     “Dean Winchester, what are you doing here?” Harry snorts, his voice drenched in condescension.

 

     The given name elicits Dean’s head to turn; the surname leaves him with a vexed look. He searches Castiel’s eyes for answers, but the angel is as confused as he is. The pair turn back towards the camera and its human counterparts without a response.

 

     “And where’s Sam?”

  
     Dean’s eyebrows draw together, bewildered. _“Who’s Sam?”_

 

**END OF ACT ONE**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> True story: In Paradise Lost, Uriel and Raphael do vanquish Adramelech to hell for being on Lucifer's side. Your little Milton tidbit for the day.
> 
> All of that stuff about the Union Station Hotel? Truth. It's a luxury hotel and you can pay to stay in Room 711 and maybe get attacked by a ghost! Win!


	10. Nashville, Tennessee (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short but plotty chapter that starts to fill in some holes on what the hell is happening to poor Dean (and, by extension, poor Castiel). 
> 
> Also, where Dean once again curses the game of Rock, Paper, Scissors.

**ACT TWO**

 

 

* * *

 

 

     _Who’s Sam?_ The question bounds through the large lobby, the acoustics of this space allowing the inquiry to bounce off walls and back to its source. The two agents and the two amateurs find themselves stuck in silence before anyone has the good sense to tell Kenny to stop filming.

 

    “Your jokes were never very good Winchester, but this one doesn’t even make sense,” Harry snidely says.

 

    Scuffed black leather taps on the marble floor as Dean impatiently shuffles, wondering how best to kill this conversation. “I’m sorry guys, but I think you have me confused with someone else. Name’s not Winchester.”

 

    Ed tips his head upwards towards the ceiling, as if he’s finally in on the ruse. “Ohhhh, right Dean. _Never a Winchester on the job._ ” He winks. “So, who is it this time? Hetfield? Cummings? Seger?” The man with the ginger beard continues to list off misnomers at a frantic pace.

 

    Castiel interrupts the ceaseless rendition of all of Dean’s favourite musicians. “I’m sorry, the two of you are misguided or ill-advised. My name is Special Agent Castiel Moscone. This is my partner, Special Agent Dean Mosely.” The two produce their badges in sync. “We have federal jurisdiction for a case here. Whereas you have .... a handheld camera, and very little tact. I suggest you get going.” Castiel pauses for a moment. “Sooner would be better than later.”

 

    The standoff continues, neither side willing to cede ground.

 

    “Listen _Cass-tiel_ ,” Harry remarks, ever so pleased with the pun achieved by his emphasis, “just because Dean here is proficient with a laminator doesn’t make the two of you any more official than us. Your ploy might fool the Mayberrys of America, but not us. We’re well acquainted with your playbook, and this? This isn’t one of your more clever disguises. So quit the act - we are going to get to work. Together or on our own - that’s your choice.”

 

    The lines that invade Castiel’s forehead make it clear he is ready and rearing for round two when Dean stops him, his arm extending across his partner’s chest, as if telling his attack dog to heel. For reasons Castiel can’t seem to make sense of, Dean nods in the direction of the Lone Gunmen wannabes. After the tension that has been plaguing himself and Dean, he doesn’t dare to push his partner too far. And so the agents wait for the crew to check into the hotel, to drop off their bags and equipment in their rooms. And then, they follow Dean and Castiel towards a diner for caffeine and case research.

 

    The table is crowded. Normally Castiel wouldn’t be one to complain about Dean’s thigh pressed flush with his own, but under the circumstances it is decidedly unerotic. For one, Dean has already elbowed him three times while slicing into his bacon and eggs, sending coffee to splatter across his white dress shirt. The feeling is further solidified as he watches Kenny chomp away at a mouthful of pancakes, seemingly unaware of the human custom of chewing with your mouth closed. The cameraman’s lack of table manners is met with a failing in social graces on Castiel’s part, a gawking gape frozen on his face.

 

    “So how long have you guys been here?” Ed inquires, sipping away at a glass of orange juice.

 

    “Five days,” Dean responds between bites. He isn’t sure why he is divulging this information to civilians, especially ones he finds so incredibly grating. But there is something needling inside of his gut that believes they have answers to questions he hasn’t yet found the way to pose. So he offers up enough to keep them talking, to appease them. “Five days and five nights - each of the nights have had - _activity_. All over the place. We’ve been going through the place’s history - trying to put names to all the unfriendly ghosts. The list of possibilities - it’s not short.”

    

    Harry hurries to finish the piece of toast within his mouth before speaking. “Looks like we’ve got our work cut out for us. Not so bad to have your help, I guess. So what - divide and conquer? We go on ghost guard while you guys do some gravedigging? I mean, we did come all this way - would be a shame to put all those spirits to rest without getting some decent footage.”

 

    “Yeah, a real shame,” Dean responds in irritation. “Here’s a thought - how about we settle this the old-fashioned way. Rock paper scissors?”

 

xxxxx

 

    “Stupid game,” Dean mumbles, two fingers still outstretched in his palm.

 

xxxxx

 

    Each armed with the list of thirty three names of the angrily departed, Castiel and Dean decide to divvy up the task of locating where exactly each of the victims was pushing up daisies. Castiel offers to go to the county office to dig through old records while Dean will do the search for eternal resting sites online back at the hotel. They go their separate ways at the diner with a quick kiss out of the Ghostfacers’ view.

 

    Soon Dean finds himself alone in the hotel room, doing his due diligence to finish his research. His still aching back is thankful that some of the victims had been cremated, narrowing down the number of times he will have to put shovel to soil. When he has exhausted the names, writing down addresses for all he can find, he goes to shut the laptop, hoping to maybe get a quick nap in before Castiel returns. He lies across the bed, freshly made, his hands clasped together across his chest. Focusing on the peace of the darkness of closed lids. On his chest rising and falling with deep solid breaths. He is nearly there when the names pass through his mind like a violent gust through an open window.

 

    _Dean Winchester._

 

    _Sam._

 

    Try as he might to ignore it, the names stir something inside he can’t quite reach on his own. An absence, a void. And so his eyes open, his hands reach for the computer, typing the Ghostfacers url. The site is rudimentary but does have a search query bar. Trembling fingers type the surname _._

 

    Dean has had some close calls before - bullet wounds and broken bones. He’s struggled to keep breathing and to stop bleeding. But there has always been a nemesis on which to place blame. But as the results of his inquiry load on the screen, Dean’s heart stops functioning - with no enemy in sight. He sees _his_ face, not a cheap knockoff, clad in plaid. Next to another man, a different partner, one who he cannot name and yet, sends protective feelings surging through him. When he has convinced his cardiac system to stop failing him, the cursor hovers over a video, Dean mustering up the strength to hit play. He is one click away from answers as Castiel flutters into their room, unannounced.

 

   Dean slams the laptop shut, its truth too much to take all at once.

 

xxxxx

 

   Between his and Cas’s efforts, they had managed to dwindle the list of names down to eleven. After the sun has set and the two have changed into their very best burial-disturbing clothes, they set off for a tour of Nashville’s finest cemeteries. The repetitive, monotonous labour of the task is precisely what Dean needs to keep his mind off of the video he hadn’t a chance to view. He drives the spade into the soil, still soaked with last night’s rain, over eleven pine boxes. He and Cas work diligently to salt and burn each and every set of bones they happen upon, not pausing to make conversation.

 

xxxxx

 

   Ed and Harry manage to get a few shots of fuzzy figures passing through darkened hallways that night. They’ll edit in some flickering lights and shaking furniture later - it’s not dishonest if the place was indeed haunted. After another successful outing of ghostfacing, the crew find themselves celebrating at the hotel bar, consumed more with the curious case of Dean Winchester than with the spectres vanquished to the other side. They toss around theories while downing the finest (cheapest) whiskey the hotel had to offer.

 

   “You think he legitimately didn’t recognize us?” Ed asks as he shakes his face from side to side, the sting of the cheap liquor offering more pain than pleasure.

   

   Harry quirks his eyebrows in his partner’s direction. “He did seem less douchey than usual.”

 

   “And what was with that new partner of his, with the holier than thou attitude?” Ed orders another round from the bartender, flush already beginning to show itself on his peaches and cream complexion.

 

   Harry slaps his hand down on the bar for emphasis. “I know, right? Something about that guy made me wish we didn’t put that ‘no killing humans’ clause in the Ghostfacers guidelines."

 

    Ed chuckles at the terrible joke. “And him pretending to not know Sam? Weird.”

 

   “One too many concussions?” Harry suggests.

 

   “Spell?” booms Ed as another shot of whiskey finds its way down his throat.

 

   “Amnesia?” Harry proposes, chasing the whiskey with a long drag of beer.

 

   “Acting classes?” Kenny offers. His contribution is drowned out by Ed and Harry’s boos.

 

   The more they drink, the closer they stumble towards the truth.

 

   “Maybe he’s some doppelgänger!” Harry shouts.

 

   “Or from an alternate reality!” Ed responds.

 

   “Or a replicant!”

 

   “OR A CLONE!”

 

   They continue on in this fashion late into the night, referencing their favourite episodes of _Dr. Who_ and _Star Trek_ as evidence along the way. When last call comes and goes, they have settled on the fact that they, like so many of their science fiction heroes before them, have somehow walked their way into a nested simulated reality, one where Dean, like Schrödinger's cat, both was and wasn’t himself. They settle their bill and head towards Room 711 to fill Dean in on their theory.

  
   Only to find it empty, the two agents who once occupied it gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always feel guilty when I disturb the happiness of these two, because the show does that enough. They deserve nothing but fluffy good times, but I am a cruel and malevolent writer.


	11. Land Between the Lakes, Kentucky (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fluff before the storm. A chapter where the two agents take a well-deserved (and forced) break from case work.

* * *

 

    Castiel’s lithe fingers methodically sift through the cards in the Davidson County records office in downtown Nashville, a century of deaths typewritten and filed. It may be a bit morbid, but the monotony of the task brings him some semblance of serenity. Because as he scribbles down yet another name and burial plot number in his ledger, he is far from tranquil. Dean’s distance plagued him like a curse, a curse he was resolved to break. And so when he finishes searching for the last name on his list, he excuses himself to make an essential request.

 

   His feet pace the parking lot, accompanied by the midday sun and a series of rings. “You have reached the voicemail box of _Assistant Director Robert Singer._ He is currently unavailable. If this is an emergency, please contact your nearest field office. At the tone, please leave a brief message.”

 

   “Singer - it’s me. Castiel. Castiel Moscone. We work together. Listen - we are just about to wrap up the Nashville hauntings and … I think … Bobby - Dean needs a break. Just a few days to clear his head. I was hoping you could wait to assign us a new case until we’ve had - he’s had - some time to himself. Please advise. Thank you.”

 

   Castiel hangs up the call like a fugitive fleeing capture. He abandons his phone to the pocket of his trench. _It was for his own good_ , he thinks, bracing himself for the “mind your own damn business” lecture he is bound to receive from Dean for this intervention. He does not look forward to that particular conflict, but remains certain he has Dean’s best interest at heart, whether he likes it or not. With a deep breath and a focused mind, Castiel takes flight.

 

xxxxx

 

   Castiel feels tethered to his phone all that afternoon and evening. He checks it as Dean compares their list of names, preparing the best route for their evening of grave disturbances. He checks it as he slips into a pair of Dean’s jeans at the other man’s insistence that suits were not all-utility outfits. He checks it as they pack their bags. He checks it as they check out of the hotel. He checks it before and after each grave the two men hollow out. Castiel is nearly convinced he had made an error when leaving the message (it wouldn’t be his first difficulty with technology) when his and Dean’s phones buzz in sync with one another. A terse text message they both can’t help but read in the backwater accent unchanged by two decades in Washington.

 

_just got my ass raked over the coals for you two idjits field hours - consider yourselves officially off-duty for the next four days._

 

   The two trade smirks and sighs, rolled eyes and shifting shoulders, before moving onto the next name on the list. When they climb into the Impala to leave one cemetary for another, Castiel sneaks a quick response, sending a _thank you_ Bobby’s way. It is nearly dusk by the time the last set of bones have been burned, the exertion of the evening clear in the glazed look in Dean’s eyes as they make their way with mud-caked shovels back towards the car.

 

   “So, where to next?” Dean asks, wiping a hand over the beads of sweat racing towards his eyes, leaving two streaks of clean on a forehead caked in dirt. “Head back to D.C.?”

 

   Castiel opens the back door of the car, the clank of iron on iron resounding through the vehicle as he lays the shovels carefully on the car’s floor. _Now or never_ , he thinks, building his resolve to face Dean, taking his partner’s hand, calloused from a hard night’s work, into his own. “I actually had another idea, if you are open to it. There’s a cabin not too far from here - it belongs to - it belonged to my vessel’s family. Perhaps we could wait out our forced vacation there? If you’re up to it.”

 

   If Dean was being completely honest, being secluded from society, alone with the thoughts of the familiar face he had seen on that website pretty much sounded like hell right about now. He wants to stay busy - to work a case - to keep his mind occupied, his head in the game. There is a significant part of him that wants to gun it back to D.C. and pester Bobby into reconsidering. But there’s another part of him, smaller but deeper, that looks at Castiel and knows that he cannot, he will not disappoint him.

 

   “That sounds good,” Dean remarks, bringing the angel’s hand to his lips for a quick peck to really seal the deal. “Just tell me where to.” The words are dragged out by the yawn that escapes his mouth, betraying his insistence that he wasn’t tired.

 

   “Sleep,” Castiel demands softly, pressing his finger against Dean’s lips, silencing the impending and anticipated protest. Begrudgingly Dean admits a few hours of rest might not be the end of the world.

 

xxxxx

 

   Dean’s eyes open just before pavement gives way to a well worn dirt road. _Land Between The Lakes_ reads the large, decidedly retro brown side. The tires pass over clods of dirt and broken branches and the occasional littered beer can, the steel frame of the Impala reverberating each rocky meter through the men's bodies. Soon, a small wooden cabin comes into view beyond the trees and shrubbery. Dean pops his head around the headrest towards the front seat as Castiel kills the engine and puts the vehicle in park.

 

    “Morning,” he mumbles as he lazily presses a kiss to the driver's right cheek. “Where'd we land?”

 

    Castiel’s brow finds itself instinctively furrowing at the suggestion. “You must still be somewhat asleep. Dean, I drove us here. We did not fly.”

 

    The laugh that comes bellowing from Dean’s belly feels unfamiliar after a week where joy seems to have been a rare commodity. He won’t admit it, but he has the sneaking suspicion that a break may have been a good idea after all.

 

    It is early afternoon before the two can actually get to relaxing. They first divide the list of tasks needed to be completed in order for them to fully immerse themselves into domestic bliss. Castiel pops into the nearest town to purchase the essentials: food to cook over campfires, coffee to accompany sunrises, beers to drink on the dock. Dean washes the mothy sheets and blankets that have been in storage far too long, hanging them out on the clothesline. When the last clothespin has secured the daisy-printed linen in place, Dean feels the sudden urge to pick up an ax and start chopping, to add to the reserve of the firewood. He is mid-swing, sweating and shirtless, when Castiel arrives, nearly dropping the brown paper bags he has clutched against him when he takes in the sight. He is thankful the day is somewhat cool, because the groceries don’t manage to make it into the refrigerator for a full hour.

 

xxxxx

 

   The fire crackles as Dean carefully tosses another piece of tinder into the flames. Castiel stands nearby, awkwardly holding the two flattened hangers in his hands, each spiking through several fluffy white confectionary treats. “Dean, I am still unsure if I understand the correct procedure.”

 

   “Thousands of years on this planet and you’ve never made a s'more? Your kind might not die, but they don’t know how to live. Really lucky you met me, you know that?” The words have no sooner left Dean’s mouth when he promptly shoves several marshmallows into it, cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk’s.

 

   “I really am,” Castiel admits tenderly, allowing Dean to swallow the massive mouthful before dipping his tongue past those plump lips, still tasting the sweet stickiness within.

 

   The two huddle together beneath a blanket, extending their poles into the flames until the marshmallows are sufficiently burned. Castiel helps assemble the sweet sandwiches, basking in the soft moans that leave Dean’s mouth as he takes small bites of the crumbling sweetness. Eyes taking in the obscene amount of stars overhead, he mourns the passing of each second of this perfection.

 

xxxxx

 

  The rising sun begins to cast pinks and yellows across Dean’s cheeks, highlighting the freckles dusted across his face. There is a hypnotic peace in the way in which his bare chest rises and falls, without worry or strain. A Kentucky warbler perches outside their window. Castiel wants to tell the bird to hush, to let this man have his rest. But he stirs, eyes painted soft green opening to greet the morning. Castiel extends a hand to trace circles at the top of Dean’s spine, a touch that has Dean craning his head up in approval.

 

  “It is still very early, Dean. Go back to sleep,” Castiel whispers like a lullaby.

 

    “Bossy,” Dean half-heartedly protests, his arms stretching towards the ceiling. “I’m actually ready to get up.” He props himself up on his elbows, twisting his body left to right, the room filling with a variety of snap, crackles and pops that should not come from a human form. “That was a good sleep. Remind me next time I’m having trouble getting to bed - the secret … is to eat more smores than a grown man should be permitted to.” With a smile that extends from ear to ear, Dean abruptly throws the sheets from his body, his feet landing on the wood of the floor. He runs towards the door in nothing but his boxer briefs, grabbing two life vests from the porch as if to wordlessly command Castiel to join him.

 

    The two men, clad in cotton, foam and plastic buckles, are soon sinking their feet into sand as the water quietly laps in, no motorboats speeding past to cause violent waves at this hour. There is a canoe tethered to the dock, laying atop a collection of leaves and twigs plastered to the sand of the shore. Dean’s adeptness at quickly working out the knots, honed through years of experience, suddenly has Castiel’s mind moving to places that have nothing to do with calm of the pine trees and the sun rising.

 

  His preoccupation is visible, filling Dean with a booming laugh.

 

  “Kinky, Cas,” he jokes as he hands the angel a paddle and a hand, teasingly passing his fingers over Castiel’s erection before guiding him to the front of the canoe, slipping closely in behind him. The canoe moves steadily around the lake, the two men moving their bodies in balance, arms working together to navigate through the still waters. An hour of rare, uninterrupted peace. When their dock comes again into view, Dean suggests they swim back, his body in desperate need of a good cleanse. Castiel quirks his head quickly to the side, as if he is unsure of Dean’s plan, but willing to follow him regardless.

 

   The water is cold, so very, very cold, leaving each man grimacing as he wades deeper into its frigidity. With one hand steadily guiding the canoe towards land, the other desperately propelling his body forward, Dean shouts remorse for his suggestion. “Love this place Cas, but cabin could use a shower. And a water heater!” The suggestion makes its way through chattering teeth and lips that seem to be quickly turning blue. When they make it to shore, Castiel wraps Dean fully in a fluffy towel, whispering promises of construction as he peppers Dean’s face with kisses.

 

xxxxx

 

   The days and nights pass through a lazy expanse of cuddles and canoe trips and conversation and Canadian Club. They immerse themselves in simple comforts: the scent of the pines, the taste of hot dogs cooked over campfire, each other’s touch beneath the warmth of flannel blankets. It has been a welcomed reprieve from ghosts and demons and putting together puzzles while missing so many pieces. So good that Castiel’s heart weighs heavy when he thinks about returning to the reality that was pulling the men apart, but knowing Dean well enough that he would never retreat from his life’s purpose to save people and hunt things.

 

   It is their last night in the cabin. The sweet scent of an impending shower fills the air, wafting through the open windows, as the two men find themselves silently wrapped in one another on the ancient couch that occupies the cabin’s small living room. As the pads of Castiel’s fingers run up and down Dean’s arms, following the course set by the veins visible through his skin, Dean finally speaks to Castiel about Sam. About the thoughts that have been running through his mind, at first frantic, now focused. Dean is going to find him, knowing in his gut that the man is of some untold importance to him. Held in Castiel’s tight embrace, the two commit to spend one more night in serenity before confronting the uncertainty that lies ahead, together.


	12. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short little chapter that hopefully fills in a few holes (although not all of them just yet).

   The screeching siren passes through the paper thin walls of the motel room, momentarily distracting its inhabitant from his task. The vehicle rushes down the road towards its emergency, sight and sound passing into the distance. Weary hazel eyes turn once again to the wall, decorated with precisely pinned newspaper clippings of unusual murders and disappearances, patterns of violence forming and disappearing. Reports and findings hacked off police databases from half a dozen cities, two names mentioned in each. Two names that were nowhere to be found in the directory of agents of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. A handful of cities filled with folks who recognized Dean’s face, their stories a chorus of a song of which Sam could not make sense. Each new motel room plastered with a few more clues, breadcrumbs leading to an ever-changing destination. Breadcrumbs Sam had followed down the eastern seaboard and into the American interior, to Tennessee. Before the breadcrumbs stopped.

 

   A familiar pain, of eyes that have been too intently staring at a computer screen throughout the day, of a mind that has not known a good night’s sleep in a month’s time, pounds beneath his forehead. Reluctantly, Sam climbs into the massive bed, calling quits on yet another failure of a day. His fingers fold around the blanket too short to cover his feet, the hunter green hue of the fabric the last thing he sees before closing his eyes to sleep. Green like the pine trees of that rest stop in the mountains, where he and Dean had made their version of peace, going their separate ways.

 

   A lingering ache fills Sam’s belly, regret burning through him. He would never have gotten into that pickup truck had he known what would happen next - that Dean would seemingly fall off the grid at the worst possible moment. That he would abandon the family surname for a movie’s moniker over and over again. That he would ignore each and every of Sam’s phone calls before disconnecting the number altogether. Sam knew, if he really tried, he could accept that it would be better for him to not be in his brother’s life - that the concern Dean had for him had led to a harrowed existence for the hunter. But one thing that Sam could not, _would not_ accept was that, with the fate of the heavens and humanity in the balance, Dean Winchester would resign himself from the fight. Something was wrong, and Sam would not rest until he found out what. He would rise again tomorrow morning with renewed resolve to find his brother and make things right.

 

xxxxx

  
   Morning light has barely broken as Sam fumbles with one hand to unlock the motel room door, his other hand occupied by a cup of black coffee and a cherry danish from the gas station down the road. He settles himself at the small table of the room, opening up his computer as the bitter scent of the coffee works its way up towards his nostrils. He takes one bite of the stale pastry, purchasing it out of a nostalgia for all the times he’d promised pie and forgotten. The familiar pages and images soon find themselves plastered on the computer screen - a copy of Dean Mosely’s badge taken by the Brunswick police department. A video from Rhode Island of two agents working within the station. The cases with vampires and demons and ghosts - things that were definitely gigs, but whose importance seemed questionable with the apocalypse impending. Cases Sam digs into, trying to piece together why Dean would devote himself to jobs that could have been handled by other hunters. How none of them seemed to lead back to Lucifer. The last long drag of much needed caffeine trickles down Sam’s throat when an alert he has set for traffic cameras gets a hit. A car that had been the closest thing Sam had to a home quickly comes into view; CNK 80Q3 crossing the border from Kentucky to Illinois. The driver has no sooner paid the toll than Sam is searching for all things supernatural in the Land of Lincoln, readying himself for a reunion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you didn't notice, this chapter has a lot of nods towards the first. Because in a fic as confusing as this, why not reference yourself as well?


	13. Land Between the Lakes, Kentucky (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We return to Cas and Dean in Kentucky.

* * *

 

 

     During their last night in the cabin, neither of the agents had been particularly keen to turn in early, managing to polish off a full bottle of whiskey between the two of them. Still, by three AM, Dean’s need for sleep eventually got the better of him. Using Castiel’s chest as a pillow, his feet dangling over the edge of the couch, the man in a lumberjack’s attire began to saw logs. For a moment, Castiel considered teleporting the two of them to the bedroom, but settled for the comfort, awkward as it might be, of the closeness of Dean’s body pressed against his own on the couch. He flicked off the nearby lamp, rendering the room the shade of pitch black one could only find in the wilderness. Before long, with whiskey-scented snores serenading him, the angel too drifts off to the world of dreams.

 

     Now, it wasn’t sleep, per say, but a state of unconsciousness adjacent to Dean’s own. Castiel would keep his distance - allowing Dean the privacy to partake in his fantasies, as if he was standing guard at the gate. He lacked the imagination to invent such worlds for himself, and so he patrolled the outskirts of his partner’s. There would be long periods of darkness, when Dean’s mind was so at ease he was without the need of words or images. And then suddenly, scenery would arise seemingly out of nowhere and shift just as rapidly, as Dean’s mind fluxed between seemingly random thoughts. Memories and wishes, places real and imagined.

 

     After several hours residing in the recesses of Dean’s mind, Castiel found himself walking amidst a forest, the scent of pine and cedar thick in the air, the sound of twigs breaking underneath his feet. He was unable to see Dean, but could sense him nearby, attuned to the particular beat of Dean’s heart. Suddenly the silence of the forest was pierced, an arrow whizzing past Castiel’s ear to penetrate an old oak tree. On the horizon he could make out two figures - warriors, clad in leather, equipped with iron. Ancient but without age. Fierce. Ferocious. Female. When he meets their gaze, one nods towards him, as if she has chosen him amongst invisible ranks alongside him. The coldness in her eyes sends a shiver down Castiel’s spine, forcing him to wake.

 

     He opens his eyes as a shudder so forceful passes through his body it disturbs the man strewn across him. Dean’s eyes, with some reluctance, open. The sun has just begun to peek through the clouds on this overcast morning.

 

     Try as he might, Castiel cannot conceal that he is disturbed - his steady hand shakes, his breath is ragged and uneven.

 

     “Cas - what the hell? What’s wrong?” Dean pulls himself upright, turning towards the angel, taking his face within the palms of his hands.

 

     “I - Sometimes I - Dean, sometimes, when you sleep, I follow you. I do not know how to do it on my own, but when I go with you, I can manage to rest my mind for a few moments at a time.”

 

     Dean pinches at skin where nose meets brow as he lets a frustrated breath out of his nose. “Cas - we’ve had this discussion before - a guy’s dreams - that’s his personal time, you know?” A blush begins to spread over Dean’s cheeks as panic flickers across the green of his pupils, the distress that Castiel may have journeyed too deep into his subconscious clearly throwing him for a loop.

 

     “Dean I know. I never wander too far in - I give you your space. It is just - I enjoy the sensation of dreams. I wish I could conjure the state up on my own, but angels lack that capacity.”

 

     Maybe it’s the early morning hour. Maybe it’s that he’s still half-asleep. Maybe it’s because Castiel seems to have an unlimited amount of sympathy and care for him. Whatever it is, Dean can’t manage to hold the grudge - instead of pushing the angel away, he takes him into his arms. Castiel quickly drops his head to Dean’s shoulder as Dean rubs firm, reassuring circles on his back.

 

     “The place you were - it was familiar and strange, all at once. Like I had been there before, but this time was different.”

 

     “Refresh my memory. Which dream exactly are you talking about?”

 

     Castiel recalls the reverie into soft flannel. “I was in a forest, shaded by enormous trees. At first it seemed the only life around me was that of the plants and the animals. I felt at peace. But then…” Castiel shuts his eyes, as if he needs no distractions to properly re-imagine the situation. “There were two of them. Women. Warriors. One with a bow an arrow. The sound of it travelling through the air - a perverse whistle.”

 

     Dean pulls back, placing a kiss on Castiel’s forehead as he departs from the other man. His eyes narrow as he attempts to recapture his own perspective.

 

     “You were there too, weren’t you?” Castiel asks, reading the stress that has found its way into Dean’s musculature.

 

     “I think - it was really hard to make sense of. I mean - monsters in dreams are a pretty regular occurrence for me. Hazard of the job, I guess. The place I was - there was forest nearby, but it was an open field - as if the trees had fallen or been burned out? A perfect circle with a woman standing at the center. At first, I could only make out her profile. Long blonde hair, wispy dress, porcelain skin. Real Lord of the Rings looking character. She was quiet and calm and beautiful, but her expression - even from the side - something about her just wasn’t right.”

 

     Without thinking, Dean has dropped his head. Castiel takes his hands into his own, as if to encourage him to keep talking.

 

     “I kept getting closer, but she didn’t move an inch. Not until I was a few feet away. And then.  Then, she turned. And Cas, it was awful. Like her other half had totally wasted away. Skeletal, jet black hair, missing her eye. She reached out a hand, nothing more than bone. And then it all stopped. I don’t know what it was, but there was something that forced me backwards. Like it was pulling me down a road.”

 

     “Can you remember anything else?” Castiel wonders aloud.

 

     Now it is Dean’s turn to close his eyes. He is behind the wheel of the Impala now - only its wheels are in reverse. Dean peers out the windows, seeing nothing but asphalt below him and sky overhead. He passes a diner that looks exactly like the hundreds of others that dot these sorts of highways, a billboard or two, unfairly nondescript. It seems like the car’s been moving for hundreds of miles before Dean has the sense to stop looking outside the car and turn his attention back within. He turns to his passenger, but it is not Cas sitting shotgun. _Sam - what is he doing here?_ As soon as he finds the familiar face, a sign, brilliant green with white font, announces the municipality of Pontiac, Illinois.

 

     His eyes open as he lets out a gasp of air, rushed and frantic.

 

     “Cas, we got to pack our bags. I think it’s time we hit the road.”

 

xxxxx

 

     Castiel insisted that, while he trusted Dean’s hunch, they should check in with Bobby. And so while Dean quickly gets himself and Baby in order, Castiel turns to his neglected phone. He fights the urge to throw it into the lake, to settle into this little cabin in the woods like Thoreau and never look back. The sight of Dean loading up the car convinces him _Walden_ will have to wait.

 

     The phone only rings through twice before he is warmly greeted by his superior. “Castiel - how’d the little getaway go?” A quick, calculated pause. “Feel free to spare detail.”

 

     “It has been … well-received. Precisely what he - what we needed. This might seem like a strange inquiry, but it has come to our attention that there may be some unusual proceedings occurring in a small town not terribly far from here. Pontiac, Illinois. Do you know - is there anything happening there we should know about?”

 

     “Gimme a second.” Bobby puts him on speakerphone, modulating his voice far too loudly as he types away at his keyboard to search for possible cases on his computer. “I’ve got no idea how you two are already wise to it, seeing as the locals just called  us this morning. You know what - I don’t wanna know. But yeah, there might be a case there. I’ll email you the details.”

 

     “Thank you. That sounds great.”

 

     “I take this to mean you two have worked out what you needed to? Ready and rearing to get back to kicking some demon ass?”

 

     “Well, we are uncertain if this has anything to do with demons. But yes, I believe I grasp your sentiment. We are once again prepared to defend humanity against any adversaries that might come in our path.” The words pass through Castiel’s lips - he desperately, deeply wants to believe them to be true, without reservation.

 

     “Alright then, you boys should consider yourself assigned.”

 

     “You have our gratitude, Assistant Director Singer.”

 

     “It’s a good thing to have, I guess. Keep me updated.”

 

xxxxx

 

     Castiel needs to do nothing but nod to Dean to let him know that his gut was right, once again. Dean lets out a relieved sigh, a feeling surging through him that, though he couldn’t piece together how he knew it, Pontiac held answers for him. About himself. About Sam Winchester. About what to do next.

 

     The Impala pulls out onto the dirt road, gently rocking its two riders as it makes its way back towards civilization. Castiel’s eyes are intently focused on his cell phone, reading through the details of the case Bobby had just forwarded him. It was a scene Dean had witnessed dozens of times, the angel losing himself in their work. And yet, this time, he could swear those eyes seemed sadder, worried.

 

     Dean stops the car, reaching his hand over the bench to clutch at Castiel’s jaw. The angel cannot turn away from the touch.

 

     “Listen - you know I’m not great with feelings. I’m even worse with words. But you need to know - everything you’ve done for me - the fact that you’ve been at my side every step of the way - I can’t say how much that means to me. I know I’ve been a mess and hell to put up with. There’s just something inside of me that says this is right. There’s no rhyme or reason to it - just a feeling I can’t push down. You’ll be with me through this? I … I need you Cas.”

 

     When the angel looks at the pain and hope and love flooding those pools of green, he mutters the only response he could ever imagine having to such a question.

 

     “Of course.”


	14. Pontiac, Illinois (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A summary doesn't seem right for this one. Just know: this is an important chapter.

* * *

 

     The car is filled with little more than the sound of Dean’s fingers tapping along to an imaginary beat on the steering wheel. Miles of open road have passed beneath the wheels of the Impala without either man venturing to speak. Not that anything more needed to be said - Dean had admitted to the importance of this trip, expressing his faith to Castiel that the town in Illinois would have answers that had so far eluded him. Answers for this riddle in which they had found themselves unwilling wrapped up. And even if Dean wanted to talk, Castiel wouldn’t be much of a conversationalist at the moment anyway. He seemed to be in a staring contest with his phone once again, losing himself in the bits of information and evidence Bobby has sent his way.

 

     It’s not until Dean begins whistling some unplaceable tune that the angel addresses the driver’s restlessness. _“Dean.”_ The name falls from Castiel’s lips with that familiar gravel warmth, as his eyes finally depart from the screen, if only for a moment.

 

     “Yeah Cas?” Dean responds, a little too eager, the extra large truck stop coffee he had just finished proving its merit. He turns to meet Castiel’s gaze. It seemed as the burden Dean had been carrying these past few weeks had not left him, but rather, transferred to his partner’s shoulders. Of course, the signs weren’t the same. You couldn’t tell Castiel was upset by sleepless nights or a trail of empty whiskey bottles. No, one needed to be so much more observant when it came to Cas and stress. Thankfully, Dean had a lifetime of reading worry lines outlining mouths, of deciphering sighs and silences. And he knew, without a doubt, that seeking out this dream, of seeking out Sam, whoever he was, was doing nothing less than haunting Castiel. And yet still, Dean's foot refused to hit the brakes, his hands seemed adamant about not turning the steering wheel away from Pontiac. Dean couldn’t do that, but he knew he had to do something. Castiel had cared for him when he was feeling lost and angry and directionless. As they move down this road, Dean wants to offer Cas the same consideration. He’s ready to listen - to hear about whatever it is weighing so heavy on the angel’s mind and in his heart.

 

     “If you wanted to put on some music, it would not bother me. I can tune it out.”

 

     Short declarations, delivered without some subliminal message lurking beneath the surface. No sooner has the angel made the offer than his attention finds itself once more on the case ahead rather than the man beside him.

 

     “Oh, okay Cas. Thanks.” Dean turns on the stereo, utterly indifferent to whatever track comes on.  He will not push. _No, not yet. No, not here._

 

xxxxx

 

     “Cas - can you grab some change for me?” Dean asks as they cross state lines. It’s only moments after Dean has tossed several quarters, some dimes and what he is pretty sure was some sort of ancient currency that accidentally got mixed in that he sees it. **Welcome to Metropolis! Home of Superman** the sign announces in vibrant primary colours. “Cas! Look! The Man of Steel! We are in Clark Kent’s neck of the woods!” Dean exclaims. The child who would cherish the gift of a comic book picked up at a gas station or truck stop growing up seems to have momentarily re-emerged.

 

     “Dean, I do not believe we are in a forested area right now. And humans are made primarily of oxygen, carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, calcium, and phosphorus. Not alloys like you mentioned. And who is this Mr. Kent? Does he have something to do with our case?” If the puzzled expression that is painted across Castiel’s face is any indication, DC’s most ubiquitous character has failed to find a readership amongst the coveted celestial market.

 

     Dean throws a blank stare towards the oblivious angel, his mouth gaping, his eyebrows diving down towards a crinkled nose. It has been too long since he has made a joke beyond the angel’s comprehension. It feels good, comfortable - it feels like home. And so exasperation quickly gives way to the masochistic desire in Dean to dig this hole just a little bit deeper. “You know - you could say - pop culture is kind of your Kryptonite.” He moves his arm to pull the angel towards him, hoping the touch would assure the culturally illiterate angel that Dean liked him, just as he was.

 

     There is a part of Castiel that wants to resist - but it is a part infinitesimally smaller than the part that seeks the warmth and comfort of the other man’s shoulder. He lets his head fall onto Dean’s broadness as he responds. “Dean, I am afraid I don’t understand that reference. Is there some sort of mineral I should know about?”

 

     A pair of plump lips press a kiss into a mess of hair. “Forget it Cas. Listen - I’ve got a few more hours of driving in me before I’ll need to stop for grub. How about I quit talking about superheroes and you tell me all about the case we are barreling towards? I figure with how intently you’ve been reading, you’re probably already an expert on all the details. Lay it on me.”

 

xxxxx

 

      _It is amazing what one can hack into with minimal effort,_ Sam thinks to himself with windows open from the FBI database and several local police departments' internal records. Since he saw that familiar big, black car pass over into Illinois, he had frantically turned to the worldwide web to try to determine its destination. A few cases seemed promising - a vengeful spirit in Peoria, some gruesome “animal attacks” just outside Springfield. And then, a town’s name he would never be able to scrub from his mind. _Pontiac,_ he read to himself. _Where we buried him and where he came back._ Sam pokes around the local papers to see if there’s anything unusual happening in the town. _A string of unexplained suicides._

 

     Bingo.

 

     Not wanting to run off on yet another wild goose chase, Sam makes sure to cross his t’s and dot his i’s, checking to see if there were any open assignments for federal investigation in the town. He scans the case description carefully.

 

      _Five suicides under investigation. Victim similarities: active or former members of the military, with commendations or honorably discharged. Ages range from 20 to 34. No signs of mental distress until recently, which served as impetus for each to seek out psychological services. Dr. David Holmes provided therapy for each of the patients - has been thoroughly vetted and seems to have no connection to deaths. Strong alibi for four deaths - no clear motive. Agents assigned to investigate: Dean Mosely and Castiel Moscone._

 

     Sam has no sooner read the aliases than he slams his laptop shut. With a bag slung over his shoulder and a smoothie in hand, he hits the road towards Pontiac.

 

xxxxx

 

     “So we’re sure it’s not this Holmes guy? Seems convenient that every vic seems to come right outta this guy’s appointment book.”

 

     “The local police seem to believe he is not involved. Their notes indicate he was quite distressed to hear about the most recent victim’s passing. He has been exceedingly cooperative. There is - there is something he began to disclose - I do not think that the detectives knew what to do with it,” Castiel mutters almost under his breath, as if it was a private admission, for his and Dean’s ears only.

 

     “Yeah? What’s that?”

 

     “It seems - it appears as if the victims were having premonitions. Of their self-inflicted deaths. The first few - his notes were vague - but the last two - they spoke quite directly about visions they were having. Dean - from what I can tell from this interview - it does not appear that any of them had suicidal ideations.”

 

     A gruff breath pushes itself from Dean’s nose - the exhale of air standing in for what he means to say. A soldier ends up at the bottom of a river or in front of a train and it’s assumed they are just a casualty of some trauma from over there. He’s seen it too many times to count.

 

     But the details of all those other times he's seen it are fuzzy, like a story read too long ago to remember where the weapon was hidden or the colour of the villain's eyes. Only flashes of all those past cases still accessible. Sure, he's had more than his fair share of concussions but even so - how had so much faded so fast? When he was really brave, Dean wondered - might those cases have included characters beyond himself and the angel? _Characters like Sam._ Dean found himself utterly consumed by that familiar face, letting himself entertain so many impossibilities. About what is and what was. About the life he was living and loving being somewhat … not right.

 

     “Dean?”

 

     The driver turns his attention back towards the passenger, whose voice he had tuned out for the sake of his daydreams. “Sorry Cas, dunno where my mind went there. What’d you say?”

 

     Castiel lets out a pained, strained breath. “I said that I think our first course of action when we arrive in Pontiac should be to get in contact with Dr. Holmes. Do you agree?”

 

     “Yeah Cas, good plan. We got time for me to grab a quick bite? Stop off for some burgers and beers?”

 

     Castiel studies Dean’s smile as he proposes the detour. He studies the way his cheekbones rise up, the tiny crinkles that form around the other man’s eyes, the various hues of green blending into one another in the sunlight. It is a look he has seen a thousand times, satisfaction at the simple joys Dean appreciated between battles. It’s one of those images that made Castiel fall for Dean in the first place. But now, for some reason the angel can’t make sense of, for a reason he feels must be wholly, fully human, his vessel is filled with pain at the sight. But ever the soldier, Castiel moves on from the feeling, concealing it from his partner.

 

     “Of course Dean. I will schedule the appointment with the psychologist for this evening.”

 

     “Perfect.” Beef and a brew in his future, Dean feels content.

 

xxxxx

 

     It is just after six when the two agents pull into the parking lot of the large building, filled with offices of all sorts. There’s a dental practice, a legal clinic, an architecture firm. Castiel’s eyes scan the directory for the right white letters on the blackboard.

 

     “Holmes. 516.”

 

     “After you.” Dean extends his arm out in a playful display of chivalry as two sets of leather make their way along marble towards the elevators. The steel doors open and a variety of professionals exit, moving past the two men waiting to go up as everyone else seems to be going down. Dean and Cas enter the vacant lift alone, their hands colliding as they each move to press the button for the fifth floor.

 

     “That’d be hell of a meet-cute moment. You know … if we weren’t already wildly and hopelessly in love with one another,” Dean jokes, pressing a quick kiss to Castiel’s cheek. The angel nervously smirks, seemingly uncertain about the unprofessional gesture despite the semi-privacy afforded by their current location.

 

     Soon the two men find themselves in conversation with a kind receptionist, who lets them know that the doctor’s current session is just about to end. They settle into two plush seats in the waiting room. Castiel immediately takes out the notes he compiled on the ride up - Dean pretends to play a game on his cell phone while secretly concentrating on making sure his knee makes contact, slight and unassuming, with the man beside him.

 

     Five minutes of silence pass before a door opens - a woman whose eyes are swollen and makeup free quickly crosses the carpet to exit the office. A tall man in a tweed jacket locks eyes with Dean, an awkward grin crossing his face as if he was both relieved and worried by the agents’ arrival. Nevertheless, he welcomes the men in, slowly and softly closing the door behind them.

 

     Dean has interviewed hundreds of witnesses and suspects and persons of interests for cases before. In that time he’d like to believe he has been able to get a feel for those who had something to hide - those who somehow had a hand in the supernatural violence to which they had found themselves entwined.

 

     The psychologist speaks of the victims - of his initial suspicions of post traumatic stress disorder in the first two. Their behaviour and dreams had elements of paranoia and terror - of an inability to distinguish between reality and fantasy. But two became three, then four, then five, and Holmes, he felt utterly helpless as one after another seemed to cry for help before their demise. The pattern wasn’t perceivable, not at first. But soon it became clear that there was something shared between all of the victims, regardless of the matter of their demise.

 

     They all reported dreams. Nightmares, really. Sequences on repeat every time they fell asleep. Always with two women - the description of which grew more defined with every new case - words like otherworldly, regal, intense. Silent women who still managed to get their message across clearly.

 

     These soldiers had been chosen to die.

 

     An hour of conversation between the agents and the psychologist passes, an hour which clearly shows - in the dark circles beneath the doctor's eyes, in the way he rubs his temples whenever he speaks of one of the victims, in the way he seems to chase any reasonable explanation for the string of deaths - that he is utterly at a loss for what is going on here. Dean is reasonably assured that the doctor is nothing more than a weary witness to something dark, something of another plane that has infected this one. And as he looks into Castiel’s eyes, he is sure the angel believes the same to be true.

 

     The sun has begin to fade from the sky when the two agents make their way once more to the Impala, with more questions than answers after their interview. The visions of the victims - were those women not the same that had visited Castiel that night in Kentucky? What of the third woman - half human and half monster, the woman that Dean had seen in that barren field somewhere in this town? Did she visit the departed too? As the doors of the car close, it is clear that a night of diving deep into lore awaits them.

 

     It is only a short drive before the agents arrive in the parking lot of the motel the psychologist had suggested to them would be more than adequate to meet their needs. Dean kills the engine as Castiel unlatches his seatbelt. In unison the two men make their way towards the car’s rear, collecting clothing and books from the trunk of the Impala. Before moving towards the lobby, Dean drops his duffel to the ground, taking Castiel’s face into his hands, kissing him hard, holding him tightly, not able to wait a minute more to provide both himself and the angel with a sense of relief from what seems to be hanging over both of their heads. Castiel, for his part, seems finally willing to afford himself some solace in Dean’s touch, swinging his arms around the other man’s waist as if he was holding onto him for dear life.

 

     In a way, maybe he was.

 

     Their lips separate ever reluctantly, their eyes acknowledging each other’s uncertainty and fear and promising they would face it _together_. It is only when that silent pledge is made that the men pick up their things and head towards the unremarkable building nearby.

 

     At least, they intend to do so.

 

     But another man, a third man, is standing at the front of the Impala. A tall man with long hair with a soft expression amongst sharp features. A man whose mouth is agape, who can only manage to mutter a single word. A man who seems in shock not only at the public proclamation of their affection for one another, but seemingly in disbelief at their very existence.

 

      _“Dean?”_

 

**END OF ACT TWO**

 


	15. Pontiac, Illinois (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter where Hel breaks loose. *rim shot* I'll see myself out.

**ACT THREE**

* * *

 

     _“Dean?”_ Dean’s head turns away from Cas towards the person calling out his name. There is no part of him that is prepared for what he sees. From the moment his eyes land on Sam in the flesh, something strange happens.

 

    The world around him starts to spin, the motel blending into the asphalt below and the sky above. The white noise that rumbles in the background - cars speeding down the nearby highway, the wind whistling through the leaves - it all goes silent under a piercing high hum.

 

    Suddenly, his skin feels like it’s burning.

    Suddenly, his mouth goes dry.

    Suddenly, the space between his temples begins to pound mercilessly.

 

    And then Dean’s falling, the panic painted on Castiel’s face the last thing he sees before he hits the ground.

 

    And then, it all goes black.

 

    No more noise.

    No more pain.

 

    Just a ceaseless sea of ink.

 

xxxxx

 

    He can’t be certain how long it is before he comes to. But eventually, he’s able to wade through the dark, black parting for a grey sky and trampled grass beneath his boots. Once again, he’s in that field - once again, he sees that figure in the distance.

 

    The woman is half-beauty and half-horror. But this time, Dean isn’t repelled. Every step forward gets him closer to her - closer to answers. The first few steps are tentative, his boots settling into the wet soil, but soon, soon Dean is sprinting towards her. He pants into the cold morning air, his breath coming out like mist. The fresh scent of pine in the air stands in sharp contrast to the stumps of the fallen trees he leaps over like hurdles. He knows not what sort of monster awaits him but he bounds ahead, unafraid.

 

    Her face is turned upwards towards the sky when Dean stumbles near, almost falling as he tries to stop his feet in their frenzy. Her head dips to meet the hunter’s gaze, her expression cold and vacant. She reaches out a hand, skin so fair it is almost translucent, to touch the collar of Dean’s shirt.

 

    “Dean Winchester…” she murmurs softly. “You have finally made your way. I have been waiting for you.”

 

    A thousand frantic thoughts race through Dean’s mind.  _Where am I? How did I get here? Where’s Sam? Where’s Cas?_ But now, in this moment, one emerges triumphant above all others.

 

    “Who are you?”

 

    The question is met initially with a blank stare. That is, until the woman, half-flesh and half-skeletal, manages to form a grimace across her face.

 

    “My darling, Dean. I am Hel.”

 

xxxxx

 

    Just seconds after the tall man called out his name, Castiel watched Dean collapse to the ground. So abrupt was his descent that the angel could not break his fall, wincing as Dean’s heft hits the asphalt with a loud thud. Castiel, of course, immediately jumps into the role of caretaker, taking Dean’s head to his lap, raising two fingers to his forehead.

 

    The other man comes rushing over, equaling Castiel in his concern for Dean. Which is puzzling because, even though his face looks strikingly familiar, Castiel is sure he has never seen him before. He turns his attention back towards channeling his grace into Dean, desperately trying to mend whatever has struck him down.

 

    “He is burning up,” he tells the stranger at his side. “We need to get him into a bed, quickly. Would you be willing to assist me?”

 

    The other man looks at him with an expression that cannot be confused as anything other than wounded. Yet still, he manages to shake his head vigorously.

 

    “I’ve already got a room. Follow me.”

 

    The two men, strong as they may be, need to work as one to carry the dead weight of Dean’s body towards the motel. Once the tall man fits the key within the lock, they lie Dean’s unconscious body on the blood red comforter. Castiel again returns to his task: to save Dean. Again he tries to let his grace flow from his vessel into Dean’s, heeding no caution that the stranger is standing witness to his angelic power.

 

    “It is not working,” he mumbles in frustration.

 

    “What do you mean it’s not working, Cas?” the other man replies.

 

    Castiel narrows his eyes, scrutinizing the stranger for the first time. _Could it be?_ His face, the jaw, the chin - there is more than a passing resemblance there. But he needs more proof. Because, try as he might, he can’t remember anything about this man, the man whose hazel eyes seem to be filling with tears, with lines of worry drawn across the planes of his face.

 

    And so he says the name, with some hesitation.

 

    “Sam?”

 

    The other man looks at him, confused for a moment before giving him a silent, reassuring nod.

 

    “I am sorry,” Castiel offers. “I - I know I should, but I don’t - I don’t remember you.”

 

    Castiel feels like Sam should be angry or upset, like he should throw something at a wall or start cursing his fate. But he does none of those things, instead pulling Castiel into an embrace, rocking him side to side as if to soothe him.

 

    “I’m just - I’m so glad I found you guys. We’ll figure this out.”

 

    Castiel is unsure if it is Sam’s optimism or his touch, but suddenly a flood of memories washes over him.

 

    A mission. A barn. A rebellion.

 

    Choosing Dean over orders. Over his family. Over heaven itself. Over everything.

 

    Trying to stop the younger Winchester. Committing to the cause too late.

 

    The feeling of being ripped apart by Raphael, only to be resurrected.

 

    Only to get a second chance to make things right. To stop Lucifer - to put him back in the cage where he belonged.

 

     _All of that, that was real. That was what had happened._

 

  

     Which leaves Castiel to wonder - _if that was real, then what life had he and Dean been living?_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean is in conversation with Hel, Norse ruler of the dead. My little headcanon here is that Hel could only appear at a place where there was some sort of physical connection to an underworld. Hence - Dean's grave in Pontiac.


	16. Pontiac, Illinois (Part 3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The point in this fic where I say, Rosie, too angsty, reign it in. AND THEN I DOUBLE THE ANGST AGAINST MY OWN DESIRES.

* * *

 

 

    Castiel does not notice when Sam pulls back. He is frozen, caught in a trance as two competing narratives play at once in his head.

 

    A world where he and Dean live their lives as one. Where he knows Dean tastes bitter like coffee in the morning and sweet like bourbon when the moon wanes overhead. In another world, they are accomplices in defiance of heaven, their friendship forged in treason and sacrifice.

 

    And yet, there was a constant running through both these realities. A truth blaring so loudly that all other circumstances are reduced to mere details: that Dean and he were eternally, irrevocably bound to one another. That his feelings for Dean were not a mirage but rather, a truth written into his very essence, his physical being. How his adrenaline peaks in both whenever Dean's life is on the line. How this fragile human heart would skip three beats every time Dean laughed or smiled or hovered near. Castiel is almost lost to these thoughts until he sees beads of sweat pooling above Dean’s brow.

 

    One imperative drowns out all the other thoughts begging Castiel for his attention. _Save Dean_. And just like that, he returns to the moment. The stale air cycling through the room through the wheezing air conditioner. The garish garnet blanket beneath Dean’s black suit. The smell of Sam’s aftershave in the air overhead. Dean is hurt and Castiel is helpless, his grace useless to this unknown plague.

 

    “We need to cool him down,” he declares as he gives the acquaintance his marching orders - to go to the ice machine in the lobby and hoard as much as he could. Sam does not argue, grabbing a bucket from the bathroom before bounding out the door.

 

    Alone again.

 

    First he pulls off Dean’s boots, then his wool socks, already soaked in sweat. His hands move to unbutton and unzip Dean’s pants, shimmying them down his legs, heavy like lead. The dress shirt has become transparent with the fever, sticking to the skin beneath - skin Castiel had worshipped at as if it was an altar. He cannot rid him of it soon enough. It is only when Dean has been stripped down to his boxers that Castiel leaves his side. Only long enough to run the bathroom’s faucet, soaking the room’s towels in as cold of water as the pipes could manage to bring forth.

 

    When Sam returns, they fashion a cold compress out of a spare pillowcase, laying it across Dean’s forehead. Swaddled from head to toe in a variety of wet white fabrics, Dean looks like a badly costumed mummy, like something out of some awful B-movie Dean would beg him to watch at three in the morning. _Which Dean would?_ Castiel swallows the thought, taking a breath deep into his lungs, the void inside feeling like a cavern. He just hopes he can buy enough time to find out.

 

    Sam sits in the room’s lone chair, dragging it next to the foot of the bed, where Castiel has taken residence. He pushes a wayward lock of hair from his eyes nervously before ending the conversation stalemate. His voice somehow manages to be cool and calm. “So I take it you don’t know - I mean how could you - do you have any idea what’s happened?”

 

    Castiel responds without turning towards Sam, his eyes fixed on Dean’s chest, terrified within an inch of his life that it will suddenly cease its pained rise and fall. “Not so much. We - the _we_ we thought we were - we were here on a case. And then - but we - there were signs…” Castiel’s voice stumbles. “I don’t know how to make sense of it all.”

 

    “Cas - “ Sam waits for the angel to turn his attention towards him, patiently waiting to speak until their eyes meet. “We’ve done what we can for Dean right now. What we need are answers. Maybe, we can put together some pieces?”

 

    Castiel once again turns to Dean’s chest, watching it struggle to fill and empty. He needs a name to curse for this, a body to beat. Someone or something to punish for all of this. It is time for him and Sam to get to work.

 

xxxxx

 

    It had been five years since Sam Winchester had been inside in a classroom. And yet, in a cheap motel room thousands of miles from Stanford, the student re-emerged. In no time, Sam manages to get through the case file. Notes Cas had scribbled down just hours before, when Dean was awake and walking and smiling.

 

    “So - you guys being here - I presume you don’t think these were straightforward suicides?”

 

    “No - there is reason to believe there is something else going on here that makes it our kind of case.”

 

     _Our kind of case_ \- the words slip out of his mouth before he can heed caution. That _our_ had felt so simple before - just him and Dean, partners. But he can see through the twitch of Sam’s cheek, the way his eyebrows bend slightly towards the bridge of his nose, the way his jaw tenses up, that the phrases rubbed at a wound Sam was doing his best to ignore.

 

    “I agree that it seems suspicious that so many vets in such a small area should take their lives so close to one another - but what made you think it was something supernatural?’

 

    Castiel hesitates before answering. He knows that there is little beyond the pale for the brothers, conditioned by a lifetime of encountering the abnormal. And if there was a skeptic between the two, he was currently passed out. Sam, Sam had always been the believer. And so Castiel makes himself speak. He tells Sam about the dream he and Dean had shared - of Dean’s mystery woman, of the women warriors he himself had seen - of the town of Pontiac rising out of some buried corner of Dean’s mind. Now that he remembered - that Pontiac is where their story began - it all seemed to be connected, somehow.

 

    Castiel talks and Sam listens, and by the time he has reached the end of what he knows, he feels like he’s been unburdened of some of that which seemed to rest squarely on his shoulders alone. Sam’s expression towards him is soft and sincere and unwavering in its certitude that they’d all manage to get through this in one piece. It is when he is replacing the ice in the pack - most of it having melted in the wake of Dean’s fever - that the idea hits him.

 

    Silently he crosses the room to his laptop, quickly doing a search query for the word that had made its way into his mind. After a cursory scan of the images, he finds the one that matches, slowly turning the computer to the angel, perplexed by activity. “I know it’s a long shot Cas, but what you saw in Dean’s dream - did they look like this?”

 

    Castiel looks upon the engraving filling up the screen. Women on horseback, fully armored. Their metallic helmets clad with feathers. Their faces solemn and stern. Cas closes his eyes, immersing himself once more into those moments of the dream. There were no capes nor any steed. The match was not exact, but the similarities were too striking to ignore. “Yes,” he mumbles towards Sam.

 

    “Valkyries,” Sam declares. A smile crawls across his face as he taps the table three times in excited celebration. “Cas, I think we’ve got ourselves a lead.”

 

xxxxx

 

    “Hel?” The name falls from Dean’s mouth in wonder. “Hmph. Never heard of - I mean, of course I’ve heard of _it_ , but I’ve never heard of…” He scans the macabre figure before him, one that looks like a character born of Tim Burton’s brain, before finishing the thought. “Never heard of you.”

 

    For a being of immense power, whose existence predates Dean’s nearest ancestors by entire eons, the ruler of the Norse underworld takes it well. “Until recently, I could say the same of you. Before that mess you made in Ilchester, of course.”

 

    Dean stares blankly at Hel, having no idea what significance a place called Ilchester had.

 

    She softly smirks at his confusion. “That’s right. You still don’t remember. Well, long story short, you and your brother - the two of you sprung Lucifer from his cage.”

 

    “You’ve got the wrong guy,” Dean protests. But there is something about the statement that, despite its ludicrosity, stings.

 

    Hel ignores Dean’s claims of innocence. “I have to admit, at first, it seemed like the power vacuum was going to work in our favour.”

 

    There is so much wrong with this conversation that Dean doesn’t know where to begin. So as if reading some far-fetched science fiction, he suspends his disbelief. A question still remains. “Our?”

 

    “The other keepers of the afterlife. I have to give the Christians this much - their PR work is unparalleled, what with convincing the lot of you that you were all destined for their heaven or their pit. But, I digress. We thought it could be to our advantage to sit on the sidelines for this one. We were mistaken.”

 

    Hel waits for Dean to respond, again taking the floor when he has no retort.

 

    “You see - none of us believe this is the way the world ends.”

 

    It all should be unbelievable to Dean - after all, he had only accepted the existence of angels after meeting one in the flesh. Still, he couldn’t come up with a reason why this creature before him would concoct such a story, so he figured that there had to be some truth to what she was saying. And when she spoke of Lucifer as an adversary - Dean felt some purpose come alive buried deep down, as if his path thus far, through hordes of demons and their ilk, had somehow led him here.  

 

    “So you’re telling me, we’re on the eve of destruction here, the Big Bad that makes all the other Big Bads quiver when his name is mentioned, roaming around topside, preparing for the End of Days. And - these being the stakes - you’ve decided to be on our side for the final showdown?”

 

    Hel responds with a single, solemn nod.

 

    “Okay. Alright. So this is happening. Not that I’m not pleased. I guess if I’m signing up for a gunfight with Satan, I could use all the firepower I can get.”

 

    Hel steadies herself. “Indeed. Especially since he has been able to amass an army while keeping you caged in this brilliant little fantasy this past month. Playing house with your partner. Your little dream life.”

 

    Her words wrap around Dean like a storm, their truth incomprehensible and yet palpable. When he moves to speak, the words come out as a whimper.

  
    “What do you mean?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Much. Plot.  
> So. Much. Sad.  
> Sweet. Sweet. Sam.


	17. Pontiac, Illinois (Part 4)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We find out what the hell (ha! get it? like Hel? I'll see myself out...) has been going on.

* * *

 

 

   “What do you mean?” The words fall from Dean’s lips equal parts inquiry and accusation. The cool breeze that passes over his tense body stands in stark contrast to the rage and confusion he feels boiling within his blood. The dark deity before him does not speak, standing still like a scarecrow on the barren land.   

 

   “Damn it, I don’t have time for this,” Dean grumbles, a little louder, a bit more aggressive, his hands balling up instinctively at yet another monster mum on answers to his questions. A single finger stretches outright, pointing in Hel’s direction. “You - you haven’t been living my life - it ain’t no fantasy, that’s for sure. So what the hell..” the hunter pauses at his unfortunate choice of words. “What the _fuck_ are you talking about?”

 

   Hel snorts a ghastly chuckle at Dean’s frustration before diving into her monologue. She speaks with the sort of disinterest that no mortal could emulate. “I know you have felt it. Like this life you have been living is some sort of … farce. Doubt - it’s painted all over that truly troubled brain of yours.” She stops speaking to look upon Dean with the cold calculation of a scientist observing a specimen underneath a microscope.

 

   “Lucifer - as long as he managed to keep you and your brother apart, he could keep up the facade. With you off the chessboard, so to speak, he’d have the upper hand. His vessel at his disposal - lost without big brother. And Michael’s lost in some parallel dimension - some dream from which you didn’t want to wake.”

 

   Dean’s drops his fists, his arms crossing across his chest. Hel continues.

 

   “You have to give the devil his due. Now it’s no secret that your heart is your undoing - I mean, how many times have you practically thrown yourself upon the pyre when someone you love is kidnapped or threatened? That’s a character flaw carved so deep into your consciousness that not even your beloved Castiel could repair it. But Lucifer - he got it right. Rage and revenge are powerful - but contentedness - that’s the real way to thwart your enemy. Give them the life they most desire and they won’t ask questions. In your case, that’s a never-ending supply of monsters to slay and a certain blue-eyed angel to curl up to in between hunts.”

 

   Dean tries to form a protest, but the words seem too far away.

 

   “You know - I think you could have gone on living that life right up until the end of days. But, lo and behold, my compatriots and I managed to bleed into both realities. Not without casualties, of course.” _The dead soldiers,_ Dean thinks. _Not a coincidence. Her fault._ The other women come to mind - the ones Castiel too had seen. _Their fault._ Somehow, the blame seems misplaced. _Our fault._

 

   It is as if Hel can see into the spiral of self-hatred Dean has found himself eagerly giving himself over to. She extends her embodied hand to rest upon his shoulder, to disabuse him of his guilt, to force him to not traverse that familiar descent of self-loathing. “Those sacrifices were necessary. They were chosen, as so many have been before. Because it was crucial to get you and Sam back together - to expose this life for what it was. An illusion.”

 

   And even though Dean tries his best to keep it upright, the world he’s known comes crumbling down. Like a sandcastle erased by the ocean’s tide - like watching a beloved building demolished by a wrecking ball. As he considers all that he has shared with Castiel - his work, his body, his heart, his life - that it all was _so real_ and yet not - he can’t help the tears that begin to swell in his eyes.

 

   It does not go without notice, for the deity before him can tell that he’s slowly breaking, piece by piece. When she speaks again, her voice is somehow softer - almost sympathetic. “I didn’t realize, however, how fragile your form was. How badly you’d take the news. Even now, the sound of your mind shattering, even for me it’s nearly too much to bear.”

 

   Dean squares his shoulders, grinds his boots into the wet soil beneath, as if to hide the evidence of his vulnerability. In as steady a voice as he can manage to bring forth, he asks: “how do we fix it?”

 

   Hel raises her skeletal hand, thumb and middle finger moving together. The bones rub together to produce a harsh _snap_ and suddenly, the two are no longer alone. Three women appear - dressed in garments of silk and chiffon. One cloaked in red - one in blue - one in black. From the unknown from which they came, they carry with them a tapestry. Woven within it is the story of Dean’s demise.

 

   Hel turns to the women, standing regal and without words. Not that they were needed. For in the cloth they guard within their hands says all that needs to be said. The story of Dean’s life as it had unfolded. Of a mother and father whose souls were fated to join together as one. Of the tragedy of his mother’s death. Of the thirst for revenge and retribution he inherited from his father. Of all those days and nights spent on the road - first alongside his father, then Sam, then Cas. _Of the curse put upon him and Castiel, to find love with one another at the expense of the world. The perverse joke of the Morning Star. For the two of them to be returned to reality only to find out they were too late._

 

   Dean’s eyes fix on that last scene, on seeing the world he has spilled so much blood for be taken over by war and famine and pestilence and death. He closes his eyes, the image too much to take. In darkness, he hears Hel utter her command.

 

   “Ladies, it’s time to weave a different ending.”

 

   Suddenly, Dean’s skin feels like ice.

 

   Suddenly, his mouth tastes like blood and burned coffee.

 

   Suddenly, the pounding between his temples begins to recede.

 

   And then Dean feels his heart beat too intensely - like that moment in a dream when you wake just before you hit the ground as you are falling. The black gives way to a bright light, pouring from a fixture overhead.

 

   The first thing Dean sees when he wakes is Castiel’s face.

  
   The first thing he feels is a ceaseless wave of pain at that sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The women Dean encounters alongside Hel are the Norns - basically the Norse equivalent of the Fates. I adorned them in colours that have been frequently alluded to throughout this fic. Because I'm a huge dork.


	18. Pontiac, Illinois (Part 5)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sad, sad, and more sad. When writing, this was the point where I nearly gave up because it hurt too bad to write all this angst. Please believe me - it's not this sad forever.

* * *

 

 

    When Dean’s eyelids flutter open, he is hit by harsh white light. It is soon softened by a shadow as Cas’s face moves to hover inches over his own, backlit by cheap fluorescent in an even cheaper motel room. A smile - more relieved than happy - spreads across the angel’s face.

 

    “Hey Cas.”

 

    The words leave Dean’s parched mouth in a mumble.

 

    “Hello Dean.”

 

    The response comes out staggered, rushed. Cas is close enough for his breath to warm Dean’s cheekbones. The angel’s fingers come to rest upon Dean’s forehead, slick with sweat and melted ice. _Cooler_. Whatever it was that was plaguing Dean seems to have gone into remission. For now. Dean’s awake and breathing and talking, just like before.

 

_Before._

 

_Before he hit the ground._

 

_Before Castiel’s whole world came apart at the seams._

 

_Before everything that he and Dean had came into question._

 

    Castiel lifts his hand from the other man’s face, at long last looking into Dean’s eyes, looking for answers. The way Dean’s own dart away, the way they are unwilling to hold Castiel’s gaze - it is precisely the reply the angel feared.

 

    Dean knows.

 

    Dean knows and things have changed. Shifted.

 

    Castiel knows he should speak - the silence stings through his skin. And so he forces his mind to turn from the heavy weight that has invaded his chest. Forces his mouth to mutter words towards the man covered in damp towels beneath him.

 

    “How are you feeling?”

 

 _Groggy._ That’s the first word that comes to Dean’s mind. Like running on an hour’s sleep after a night of getting too chummy with every kind of alcohol. But that word doesn’t cut it, because, if he’s being honest, it’s much more than that.

 

    Cas is close and nearly caressing him and suddenly, that makes him feel sick. Because those feelings of certainty and calm he knew in Cas’s arms - what seemed like a lifetime but had been a months-long fevered dream - those feelings now plague him like some virus to which he has no cure. He looks to the angel - his friend, his ally - unable to make sense of how being together had ever felt right.

 

    Sure he cared for Cas, but not like that. Hell, if Dean’s being honest, he didn’t think he could feel like that for anyone. And yet, those feelings which now were a universe away ... didn’t feel foreign. Under some sort of spell sure, but whose ingredients came from within him. And now he’d do anything to purge them from his system. Because having felt that way and now having to look at Cas - it was all too much.

 

    Of course, he can’t say all of that. So Dean does what he does best. He lies.

 

    “Fine ... considering. Although I wish I had on slightly more clothes at the moment.”

 

    “Of course. We had to - you were running a fever - we had to cool you down.”

 

    Dean had been so distracted about having to deal with _the Cas thing_ that he had forgotten entirely that they were not alone. He props himself up on his shoulders to take the giant into view. _Sammy_. A new feeling of dread fills his entire body. Suddenly his stomach is like an overeager toddler doing one somersault after another, not knowing when to quit.

 

    Dean makes a beeline for the bathroom, hugging porcelain just in time. The fever’s breaking, his stomach’s emptying. He can’t curse some bad decision made at some roadside diner as the culprit. _Sammy_. It makes Dean sick to think that any version of himself could forget his brother. Sure they’d had their troubles, but Sammy was the most important person in the world to him.

 

    As his fingers pull down the toilet handle, Dean’s thankful for one thing. He’s happy he’s spent a lifetime learning how to repress his feelings, how to push them deep down. Because he’s got a job to do and all of this is a distraction. It nags away at his attention when there’s something far more important to focus on.

 

    Lucifer.

 

    Every feeling of regret and confusion that’s flowing through Dean’s bloodstream.

    Every kiss he’s trying to forget.

    Every mile of road he didn’t think about Sammy.

 

    All of that would have a cost.

 

    And the Devil himself would be footing the bill.

 

xxxxx

 

    In the wake of Dean emptying the contents of his stomach he found himself hungry. And so the three piled into the Impala - Sam and Dean in the front, Cas, without words, going towards the back. He doesn’t begrudge the seating arrangement. He’s happy Sam’s here to fill the void, the unbearable silence he knows would be happening between him and Dean. And so Sam talks and Dean listens and Cas eavesdrops. He tells Dean how he’s been searching for him, always one step behind. How he tracked their cases.

 

    “So those were real?” Dean huffs towards his brother, seemingly disappointed he hadn’t been in stasis.

 

    Sam doesn’t notice the abrasive edge to Dean’s voice. “Yeah, as far as I can tell, everything you experienced happened, in a way. Like a long, prolonged LARP session you didn’t know you were playing. Some sort of twisted game.”

 

    A game. Yeah, he was playing house while the world around them was going to shit, while Lucifer was chugging along topside, conscripting soldiers into his army. Awesome.

 

    Dean chooses his next words deliberately. The whole thing’s got him unnerved, even pissed. But he knows he’s one misjudged tone away from snapping. From blaming whoever is close enough to be blamed. His eyes don’t leave the road ahead.

 

    “Yeah, I’m pretty sure that was Lucifer’s plan. Needed to be close enough to the real thing for him to keep the mirage going. Cast some familiar faces, found some real life cases. As far as lies go, it was a pretty convincing one.”

 

    The word plunges through Castiel’s ribcage with the intensity and sharpness of an angel blade. _Lies._ Is that really how Dean felt about everything that had happened between them? That when Cas whispered his _I love you’s_ as Dean fell asleep on his shoulder, it wasn’t true? That when he called Dean _perfect_ as he spilled inside of him that was some sort of deception?

 

    Castiel casts away those human emotions he feels threatening to take over his vocal chords, demanding for his mind to refuse to give way to all that threatens to pour out.

 

    “So Lucifer is behind this. That makes sense. It would take someone of immense power to create such a vivid reality. One that was more than smoke and mirrors. One that felt real. One that … was real.”

 

    He knows he’s still putting together the pieces, but Sam can’t help but hear the hurt in Cas’s voice. He knows they must have been through something awful together in that reality, because the two of them are still nursing open wounds.

 

    “You know what they say, the devil is in the details. Seems they’re right.”

 

    Simultaneously, Cas and Dean shoot forced smiles Sam’s way. Apparently, cliches were not helping. Sam searches for the right words, thankfully spared from another miss by Dean’s announcement.

 

    “That diner looks just greasy enough to do.”

 

xxxxx

 

    The smell of dirty fryer oil coupled with the feel of the plastic menu beneath Dean’s fingertips reminds Dean he isn’t dreaming.

 

    Not that this venue wasn’t the sort of place where good dreams took place.

 

    Sam nervously drums his thumbs on the formica tabletop. He’s already ordered a salad. He wasn’t dissuaded when their waitress asked if he was sure. Dean puts in his order - that beautiful synthesis of beef and bacon he’d order in any reality - and takes a sip of his truly awful rewarmed coffee.

 

    “So what’s next?” Sam asks eagerly, as if he’s been caffeinating for the better part of the day. Even if all that has gone into his system are smoothies.

 

    “Well, as far as I see it, we gotta call off Hel’s groupies. No need for anyone else to take an early exit to the afterlife.”

 

    “Actually, the Valkyries - that’s what Cas and I saw - they represent a wholly other part of the afterlife for the Norse. For soldiers killed in battle. But the point stands, yeah, they probably shouldn’t be continuing to call people up prematurely. So we find them and we ask them - we tell them they need to stop.”

 

    “Could you be any geekier?” Dean asks Sam. The question comes out as if on instinct.   

 

    The brothers share the first sincere smile since their reunion.

 

    Cas takes in the sight for only a second before finding something very fascinating in the parking lot.

   

    Dean pretends not to notice the sudden redirection of Cas's eyes. “I dunno Sammy, a free pass on killing good honest folk? Seems like a bad precedent for us to be setting.”

 

    “Priorities Dean. They got us back together so we could fight the Devil. We’ve spared for less.”

 

    Dean acquiesces to his brother.

 

    Twenty minutes and two empty plates later, the trio once again are on their way.

 

    Dean wasn't in the mood for pie.

 

xxxxx

 

    The room is so quiet that Castiel can hear the movements of the toothbrush as it passes over Sam’s teeth. He absent-mindedly shuffles some of the papers on the room’s lone table - not so much reading as keeping up the pretense that he’s busy doing something. Dean is getting another room - this one only has one bed and the brothers are both exhausted. _Another room._ One he will not share with Castiel.

 

    Sam has not yet finished his nighttime routine (they had decided to hold off on invoking the Valkyries until the Winchesters had each had at least a few hours of sleep to their credit) when there is a knock.

 

    Soft, tentative.

 

    Castiel opens the door - the black of the sky broken by the bright white of the moon.

 

    Standing there, with a set of keys and a bottle of Jack, is Dean.

 

    He pulls in a deep breath.

  
    “Cas, we need to talk.”


	19. Pontiac, Illinois (Part 6)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You wanted a break from the angst? Turn back, cause here is all of it.

* * *

 

 

     Dean’s palm passes over the bell on the desk of the lobby. Its ding prompts the absentee worker to come slinking out of a back room, smelling all sorts of skunky.

 

     “Hey man. Just you?” The question comes out in an extended yawn.

 

     “Yeah, just me,” Dean sighs.

 

     The man turns his bloodshot eyes towards a row of hooks, fumbling to get the right set of keys. He finally manages to slide them across the countertop, asking the hunter how he wants to pay.

 

     Dean fingers through his wallet. Instinctively, he goes to pull out the credit card. But suddenly, the false name embossed on the plastic is too much. He makes a mental note to leave it behind broken in several pieces in the room’s wastebasket.

 

     “Cash, if that’s alright,” Dean responds, removing three crisp twenty dollar bills from within the leather.

 

     A lazy grin stretches itself slowly across the man’s face. “Sure thing bro. Room number 11.”

 

     Keys in hand, Dean quickly treads across the parking lot to head towards his room. But with each step, the anxiety within begins to pool. He’s nearly halfway when he decides that - given the day’s events, he’s earned a drink.

 

     Or two.

 

     Or twelve.

 

     So soon he is rummaging through the back of the Impala, unearthing a bottle of whiskey he and Cas had yet to open. When his fingers grip the glass neck, Dean swears he doesn’t allow the memory of what Castiel’s tongue tastes like after he’s had a few drinks come to the surface. Nor does he long to taste that sweet smokiness for himself.

 

     Yes, drinking was definitely a good idea.

 

     And so Dean once again heads towards room number eleven, now properly equipped, looking forward to drinking himself into good old-fashioned oblivion. It’s just that - his feet have a plan of their own, and suddenly he finds himself in front of Sam’s door. His hands too are part of the mutinous crew - knocking a quick, rushed rhythm.

 

     And his mouth, his mouth is the most traitorous of all - making demands Dean couldn’t possibly want. Asking Cas to talk when all Dean wants to do is run like hell from all of this.

 

xxxxx

 

     The nod Cas gave him to his plea convinces Dean he’d be a coward to take off. That doesn’t mean he’s going to enjoy this heart-to-heart. He knows this is some fate worse than chick flick, and he’s gonna have to build up his courage to start talking.

 

     An unpunctuated drink of five fingers of whiskey doesn’t hurt.

 

     It isn’t long before that familiar, pleasant buzz begins to numb the aching that had pervaded Dean’s whole body since had woken from his fevered dream. It’s when it’s working its decidedly non-supernatural magic that Dean finally musters up the strength to stop diverting his eyes from the angel slumped over in the armchair. He looks at Cas’s hands - hands that heal. They are drumming a nervous beat upon his knee, draped in that trenchcoat that Dean had so often mocked as a heinous fashion crime. A trenchcoat that had long since provided a profound sense of comfort few other things could offer. It is just as the whiskey is beginning to warm Dean from the inside out that he finally looks at Cas’s eyes. Even now there is a calm in their gentle blue hue. Their serenity is too much to bear. So Dean, always keen to trade comfort for chaos, blurts out the first thing he’s certain is true.

 

     “I’m not mad, you know.”

 

     The angel crooks his neck at the admission. It is less curious than confused. The words he chooses come out terse and flat. “What would I have done to be mad at, Dean?” he asks through gritted teeth.

 

     Dean lets out a winced sigh. Already off to a stellar start. “Nothing. It's just... this is awkward.” He pours himself another ample drink before crossing the room to offer the bottle to the angel.

 

     “It's not ideal,” Castiel admits before taking a long drag straight from the bottle.

 

     Dean smirks at Cas’s abandonment of manners. “That's one way of putting it.” He leans against the table on which Cas’s hand is now resting, feeling awkward about looming over the sitting man. “Look, I'm not…” The omitted word of orientation proves too difficult for Dean to say. Cas for once gleans his meaning. “Not that there's anything wrong with that. I mean. Are you?”

 

     “I am utterly indifferent. You know that.”

 

     Just as the burn hits the back of Dean’s throat, he coughs forward a response. “I knew that.” He drops his gaze towards the carpet. He wants to say no more. He’s nearly praying that he doesn’t have to. But prayer would be pretty useless at this point, seeing as Cas would be privy to those thoughts anyhow. It’s not like Dean could ever imagine praying to anyone else.

 

     So Dean guardedly lifts his eyes from the carpet beneath his boots, somehow managing to find the strength to divulge just a little more. “It's just…when I look at you now... it's not like before. Much as I’d like it to be. And it’s not like during.”

 

_Because I can’t not remember how divine all your lean muscles feel beneath me._

_Or how you are ticklish behind your knees._

_Or how your nose crinkles up when you smile too wide._

_Because I can’t just forget the shape of your mouth when you come._

 

     Dean curses himself for cataloging all the attributes he is trying so hard to leave behind  - to move past. The things he knows that he can’t seem to let go.

 

     He doesn’t dare speak further.

 

     Now it’s Cas’s turn to drop his gaze to the floor. “I see.”

 

     Dean can’t see it, but he can feel the hurt carved into Cas’s face. And so, his body once again gets the better of him. He moves towards Cas, leaning in. His confession is barely above a whisper. “But I still care. I know this is weird - hell, we need to invent a word more than weird to describe it - but… even though it’s … Cas, I don't want to lose you.” Dean’s hand rests on the angel’s forearm.

 

     Cas shudders from his touch.

 

     Dean would have to learn how to stop doing that.

 

     “You know - I still believe.” Castiel lifts his head just in time to see that his words have painted panic in Dean’s eyes, the hunter’s willingness for vulnerability reaching its limit. And so, he clarifies. “Free will.” _It’s not untrue_ , Cas thinks. _Even if it’s not the whole truth._ “No matter what messiness lies between us. I still believe in what you have taught me.”

 

     Cas keeps his last thought private. _I still believe in you._

 

     Dean lets his forehead fall against the angel’s for a moment. He convinces himself he can always pretend he’s just tired. The feeling of their warmth blending as one is too much, even in his numbed state. And so Dean pulls back. This time, for good.

 

     “We just need time.”

 

     “Time,” Cas mimics back.

 

     “Then things will go back to how they were.”

 

     “Right,” Cas mutters, hoping he’s learned enough from his human to make the words sound at least a little earnest.

 

     Dean doesn’t say anything more. He kicks off his boots and collapses on the bed, hoping this will all be easier to face in the morning.

 

     He’s just about to fall asleep when he hears Cas’s voice once more.

 

     “Dean?”

 

     “Yeah Cas?” he mumbles into the room’s darkness, his eyes heavy.

 

     “Can I? Just once more?”

 

     He doesn’t need to clarify. “Once more,” Dean agrees before the day finally ends.

 

     The angel takes his post. To watch over him.

 

xxxxx

 

     It is not yet dawn when Cas must steel his resolve to not answer Dean’s inadvertent prayer, made in between dreams.

 

_To hold him one last time._

 

xxxxx

 

     The next morning Dean wakes alone. After a shower and shave, the suit ditched for a pair of jeans and t-shirt, he makes his way towards his brother’s room. He’s felt better. He’s rubbing away the pain of whiskey when his brother answers the door. He’s still got an ear to ear grin across his face. _At least he’s happy_ , Dean thinks. _That’s what matters, right?_

 

     The stuff Sam’s got laid out on the room’s small table means he’s either figured out the ingredients to invoke the Valkyries, or he’s making the world’s least appetizing soup.

 

     “Morning,” Sam says cheerfully as he polishes off his coffee. He hands a paper cup filled with gas station goodness to Dean, who happily accepts the gift.

 

     “You’ve been busy,” Dean chuckles towards his brother, whose nose is quite literally within a dusty old book.

 

     “Yeah, we’ve been at it for a few hours. Cas just went on a run for the last thing we need.”

 

     Dean manages to acknowledge Sam’s words as he awkwardly dribbles coffee down his chin.

 

     His clumsiness continues when that familiar flutter cuts through the air - Castiel now present, dropping a small velvet bag filled with tiny little bones into Sam’s hands. The glee with which Sam receives the gift is as touching as it is repulsive.

 

     “Okay, I think we’re ready to do this.” Neither Cas nor Dean do anything to challenge Sam’s conviction. They both seem determined to outdo one another in a game of pretending as if all was well.

 

     Sam begins to mumble something in what was definitely not Latin (an old dialect of Norwegian, Dean later found out) as he combines the ingredients in a large pewter bowl. Although it is a clear day outside, the room soon fills with howls of wind and clouds of darkness.

 

     Sam grabs each of the other men’s hands, prompting them to do the same.

 

     Both have to resist the near instinct to interlace their fingers.

 

     At long last, the storm subsides. The two woman warriors appear before them. The men drop hands. The women - whom Sam had been able to identify as Herja and Hildr - smell of the iron of blood and soil. They do not look pleased.

 

     “We come to you, you do not call us,” Hildr huffs out towards Sam.

 

     “About that,” Dean cuts in. “Gonna need you to dial back the whole sending soldiers to their death bit. Not quite ready for the Ragnarök death toll yet.”

 

     Sam shoots Dean a surprised look.

 

     “What? I read.”

 

     The look stays put.

 

     “Comics are a perfectly legitimate source of information.”

 

     The look softens.

 

     Herja cuts in, finding the brothers’ banter less than amusing. “Are we not at the End of Days? Who are you to tell us when to cease what we have been doing for thousands of years? You are but mere mortals.”

 

     Castiel pulls out a freshly swiped from a museum dagger. One whose power was immediately apparent by the fear that found itself adorned across two ancient faces.

 

     “Very well,” Herja acquiesces.

 

     “Damn straight,” Dean snorts in retort.

 

     His response elicits the ancient Norse equivalent of an eyeroll.

 

     “We’ll see you soon enough,” Hildr insists as her eyes dart between Sam and Cas.

 

     Their words still permeate the air long after the Valkyries flee. They hang over the men’s heads as they are left to do nothing but wonder what lies next on the road ahead.

 

     “So, Satan?” Sam asks of his two accomplices.

 

     Neither answer, still in a daze of all that has come undone in the matter of a day.

 

     After several strained minutes, the silence proves insufferable for Castiel, who invents a pressing concern to attend to in heaven. Some sort of fact-finding mission that will aid the Winchesters in their attempt to stop the Devil and his planned misdeeds.

 

     “I’ll be back,” he half-heartedly promises to the motel room wall, not daring to make eye contact with the message’s intended recipient before taking flight. No one makes a reference.

 

     He’s gone before Dean can find the courage to ask him to stay.

 

**END OF ACT THREE**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, I do believe comics to be a perfectly legitimate form of information. AUTHORIAL INSERT WHAT WHAT!


	20. Kansas City, Missouri (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is the official (short) start to the second part of this story. We are now immersed in the canonverse of season five. I had to take a few liberties with the framing of 05x04 (“The End”) for this one. Basically, the plot of this story is the stand-in for Sam and Dean’s separation in early season five, so the conversation they have before Dean is flung into the future doesn’t happen in my world (although I love it canonically). Hopefully that’s not too confusing!
> 
> The angst isn't gone, but we are gonna get a lot more fluff ahead. I promise. Scout's honour.

 

 

  **ACT FOUR**

 

  

* * *

 

  

    Cas spent a lot less time on earth these days.

 

    In fact, in the weeks since Pontiac, he’d barely been at the Winchesters’ side. Sure, he’d always come when Dean called, but he’d just as soon flee. Insist he was needed in Heaven, or some Heaven-adjacent reality. That he was doing what he needed to do to hunt down Lucifer. Maybe he was. _But I need you here too_ , Dean would say silently, over and over in that part of his mind he was sure even Cas couldn’t hear.

 

    Time. That’s what they both insisted they needed. But it turns out that time doesn’t heal all wounds - it just moves you further from the thing you lost.

 

    Time hurt Cas.

 

    It hurt Dean too.

 

    Time’s on Dean’s mind as the Impala weaves its way through another expanse of wheat. He’s not sure why it happens. Maybe it’s the fourteen hours he’s spent behind the wheel. Maybe it’s because Sam talks incessantly during most of those fourteen hours about Enochian esoteria. Maybe it’s the warmth of the Impala’s engine rumbling, the familiar comfort of its purr reverberating through Dean’s body. But for a fraction of a second, his eyelids drop, the road ahead vanishes, sleep as seductive as a siren.

 

    The near-doze leaves him with that uncomfortable jolt to his system, his shoulders jerking back suddenly as he shakes away the fatigue.

 

    “When’s the last time you’ve had a good night’s sleep?” Sam badgers, irritatingly alert.

 

    “When’s the last time you had a … had a … shut up!” Dean responds, unable to muster up the neural energy to properly mock his brother.

 

    “Pull over,” Sam demands, pointing to a greasy spoon attached to an even greasier motel about a mile ahead. They were somewhere on the outskirts of Kansas City, which looked pretty much the same as the outskirts of anywhere in the heartland. All fields and flatness.

 

   Begrudgingly, Dean admits that a good night’s sleep doesn’t sound like the worst idea. And so with an exaggerated sigh that tells his younger brother he better not get used to bossing him around this way, Dean pulls the Impala into the parking lot, parking it and killing the engine.

 

     Two steel doors open and shut in unison. “Go get some sleep,” Sam orders, slinging his laptop under his arm as he heads towards the diner. The honeymoon period of their reunion, of biting their tongues around one another, of exchanging pleasantries instead of barbs, had long since passed. _Thank God for that_ , Dean thought. Back to their normal dynamic - a healthy balance of giving each other a hard time and saving each other's hide. Dean knew it was strange to fall back into this - they'd gone their separate ways in Colorado for good reason. The fact hadn't changed that his younger brother was a liability - that a lifetime of making sure he made it through the day was a hard habit for Dean to break. One that - given their current circumstances - was not only personally damning, but potentially world-destroying.

 

     But if he really was better off without Sam - why had the Devil tried so hard to keep them apart? No, it was Dean's job to protect Sam. He'd forgotten that once. He wouldn't make that mistake again. He reminded his brother of that fact without all the touchy-feely stuff. “You’re the younger one, Sammy. You don’t get to give orders. You get to follow them,” Dean insisted authoritatively. As authoritative as one could be while yawning.

 

    “Younger, yes. Wiser? Also yes,” Sammy quickly shouts as the two continue to separate. One towards stale coffee and bad fluorescent lighting, the other to count sheep on questionable sheets.

 

    “Bitch!” Dean shouts across the parking lot.

 

    “Jerk!” Sam yells before disappearing into the restaurant.

 

    A faint smile finds its way across Dean’s face as he moves towards the small room masquerading as a lobby.

 

xxxxx

 

 _Okay, so, you can pop in tomorrow morning._  
  
_Yes. I'll just—_

The call cuts.

  
_—wait here, then._


	21. Kansas City, Missouri (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's getting fluffy again, guys. This chapter is wholly from Dean's perspective amidst the events of 05x04 "The End." I love, love, love this episode, so it was a bit strange to play so loose with it, but in the end (ha!) I'm pretty happy with it. I could write a dissertation on endverse!Cas and how he breaks my heart, by the way.

* * *

 

    When Dean wakes up, he feels considerably worse for the wear. He’s slept on some piss poor mattresses in his time, hell, he’s used the front bench of Baby as a makeshift bed more times than he can count, but the ache he feels bound in his back muscles? This is a new one. His eyes are still shut when the abrasive squeak fills the room, the rusted steel frame of the bed giving way underneath his restless body. A loose spring scrapes against a piece of exposed flesh at his hip, directing Dean’s thoughts towards the date of his last tetanus shot. Finally his hand makes contact with what lies beneath. Well, that explains it. No mattress at all.

 

    When his eyes finally open, he is assaulted by the gray of it all. The room last night was no Ritz Carlton, but this room - it looks like it was barely left standing after a fallout.

 

    Apprehensively Dean cuts across the room towards the window, to look down upon the city below him. What used to be a city, that is. Cities aren't cities without that noisy symphony of horns honking and voices chattering and cars backfiring. This wasn't a city - it was as silent and still as a graveyard. So devoid of life that when Dean begins to traverse the city’s streets he can hear the weight of his own footsteps against asphalt and concrete. All those pulpy sci-fi books he's read since he was a kid have got his wheels turning. Nuclear bomb? Disease? Zombies? The possibilities for what's happened are seemingly endless. Seemingly. Because all those scenarios fade away at once when Dean sees the word, _that_ word, scrawled in red across the brick of a building.

 

    Croatoan.

 

    It's not long after that Dean’s fleeing from Croats, big and small. Just when he thinks he's backed into a corner from which there's no escape he hears it. The shrill sound of metal piercing the air, over and over again. Ceasing only as it lodges itself within the flesh of Dean’s attackers. His survival instincts have got his body low, pressed up flat against a city street littered with months old newspapers, a street now stained with blood. Dean’s hands cover his ears, but he can still hear it all. The machine gun fire. The perverse song booming from a tank’s speakers. Bones and muscles torn by bullets. The short screams that slowly grow faint.

 

    And then, just stillness and silence.

 

xxxxx

 

    

    Dean should be grateful for answers. But when those answers are coming out of the mouth of the flying embodiment of a _dick with wings,_ it's little comfort. _Fucking angels_ , Dean thinks, lamenting the preoccupation both Heaven and Hell seemed to have with flinging him across realities, across space and time, to prove their point. This time it's the future: five years, to be precise. And the message? That Dean would not succeed in stopping the plans they had put into motion. Plans long foretold. That, one way or another, this was the end, and Dean Winchester had no say in it.

 

    “Three days,” Zachariah repeats in that shrill, nasal voice of his. Hard to believe that, unvesseled, it too could level cities. Like Cas’s had. Like Cas’s _could_. _Cas_. How was it that his voice was like music when this guy’s sounded like a balloon deflating? _Cas_. Cas was much better at the whole disrupting the space-time continuum than this guy, too. Even if his short stint in 1974 hadn't left Dean with the results he wanted, even if the point then was the same now (fate, responsibility, familial destiny - the angels seemed to know precisely one tune that they sung over and over), this felt different. Because … _Cas._ Cas cared about humanity and free will and _Dean_ , and Zachariah, Zachariah cared about winning.

 

    “Three days,” the angel says in his most foreboding tone, wresting Dean from his thoughts, from the image of electric blue eyes and carved features. And then, once again, Dean’s alone.

 

xxxxx

 

    There was a lot that happened in those three days, of course. Angels and demons. Heaven and hell. Him and Sammy. They were days that would live long in Dean’s blood and bones after he was flung back into the present. He’d remember them and reimagine them time and time again. But what surprised Dean most was how little all that mattered at times. For when he was stuck in the 2014 his _no_ had created, Dean found himself thinking about one thing most of all. More than the Devil. More than Michael. More than the brotherly duel to the death in which he knew he could never have a part.

 

   Dean kept thinking about Cas.

 

   He thought of him on the first day as his fingers ran over the crumpled photo. Of Bobby and Cas at some place called Camp Chitaqua. Of the beard that now adorned the angel’s face. _That doesn’t look half-bad,_ Dean thought. Of how short he had been with the angel that night before. How, if he could go back, he'd tell Cas to come immediately. How he wouldn't have kept him waiting. How it would have been a comfort for Cas to have been at his side when Dean woke up in this world.

 

    He thought about Cas as night faded into day, as the sun begins to peek over the horizon, as light flooded the small cabin in which he was being held prisoner by his future self (“Carver Edlund” must have had his work cut out for him with this one). Light that illuminated the life Zachariah so smugly insisted awaited the hunter if he did not comply. He turned his eyes away from the light, away from this world that could not be, focusing intently on a waterstain on the ceiling, praying to Cas to come rescue him.

 

    And then, as if his prayer had been fulfilled but the details had been mistaken like a garbled message in a game of Broken Telephone, Cas came.

 

    But this Cas was different. He could still see into Dean’s soul in that way that made Dean want to crawl out of his skin but also, secretly, fully made him feel protected and safe and cared for. But his features were hardened and his demeanor too relaxed. He smiled too much and the smile, beautiful though it was, wasn’t the right shape.

 

    Dean thought of the Cas he knew that must still live inside this new Cas. One without wings or mojo but still so powerful, in ways Dean could only begin to comprehend. How something had happened to his own Cas to turn him into this guy who was knee deep in orgies and drugs, who had somehow developed a cutting sense of humour. Had Dean done that to him?

 

    It's on that second day that Dean’s heart skips a beat when this Cas says he likes _him_. The _him_ of 2009, the _him_ that left Cas on the side of some unknown road. The _him_ that was a source of constant exacerbation and frustration for the angel. The _him_ who was often so distant with the angel. But as slightly-bloodshot eyes turn once again towards the Dean out of his time, every fiber of Dean’s being knew it to be true. You don’t look at a stranger or an ally or hell, even a friend, like _that_. Cas liked _him_.

 

   It’s on that second day that Dean’s heart breaks, just a little, when he sees Cas’s eyes flood with pain when he talks about bearing witness to Dean torturing once more. It's on that second day where Dean feels the unconditional, all-consuming love that flows through Cas when, despite knowing better, he’s the first in line to follow Dean into the dark.

 

_Are you coming?_

_Of course._

 

    Two ordinary words that spoke to the depths of Cas’s loyalty. Two words he had heard fall from the angel’s lips so many times before. Two words he swore he would appreciate more, if he just got the chance.

 

    It's on the third day Dean knows this life can't come into being. Yes, he wants to prevent the Croatoan virus from taking root, from losing Sam, from watching the Devil win.

 

    But more than anything, Dean refuses to become the man who leads Cas haplessly and hopelessly to his death. For there is no world in which he will live where he can let himself do this.

 

    Because _Cas too_ is too much.

 

xxxxx

 

    Dean had many complaints to wage against angelkind. But damn if they weren’t punctual. The Devil in Sam’s skin had just finished his diatribe against Dean, about how it had to end like this, how they'd always end up _here._ That it mattered not that Dean had managed to break through the dreamworld he had concocted for the hunter and Cas. That it was still too little, too late.

 

Satan was nothing if not certain.

 

    But then it's him and Zachariah, again in that hotel room, again in 2009. The chance to say yes there once again. The yes his future self screamed to deaf ears. The yes that the portly angel insists is the only way to prevent billions from dying. The yes for which Dean’s body has been built. To that question, Dean has but one word.

 

    “Nah.”

 

    Just as Zachariah is ready to dole out some Old Testament punishment for Dean’s insolence, the hunter is pulled from that hotel room. He still has his arms up defensively, bracing himself for some grade A smiting, as he turns on that busy street. He searches for his saviour. Part of him already knew.

 

    It is only a few seconds, but Dean is lost in the sight. Of the strength of the man clad in tan canvas. Physical might yes, but more than that. Of the sheer ferocity of Cas’s essence to be able to say _no_ to what was called his fate, his nature. When Dean looks into Cas’s eyes, sparkling but still blue under the streetlights, he finds a little piece of that strength for himself too.

 

    He wants to say all those things and then some. He wants to thank Cas for everything. He wants to profess to Cas that these past few weeks there has been an angel-sized hole in his life. That he thought he needed time and space but time and space have only made it more apparent to him that there is no going back. But even though those things feel so true inside, making them words is still too much. So Dean, ever true to himself, settles for an evasion.

 

     _That's pretty nice timing, Cas._

    The angel - whose absence these past few weeks Dean has felt in his bones, smirks. _It's good to see him smile_ , Dean thinks. _Him_.

 

     _We had an appointment._

    Dean reaches out, placing a hand on Cas’s shoulder. He does it without thinking but it feels right. It's a first step. The second? A simple sentiment.

 

     _Don't ever change._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That Carver Edlund line ... writing this was hard guys. Having two of the same character in the room does not read well, that's for sure!


	22. Alliance, Nebraska

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a reprieve from a lot of the angst of this story. It takes place amidst the events of 05x06 “I Believe the Children Are the Future,” (the episode with the Antichrist and all of kids’ worst fears being realized). It is silly and smutty but also - still a step forward for Dean owning his feelings for Cas and that he can’t just move past being with him.
> 
>  
> 
> So know that the rest of this story will follow the trajectory of Season 5, with all these Destiel feels hanging overhead and Dean and Cas each making sense of how to move forward having been together for a month within this strange little alterna-canonverse I have constructed.
> 
>  
> 
> And that I love Season 5 and have many fluffy, smutty feelings about it.
> 
>  
> 
> Enjoy.

 

 

* * *

 

     Dean’s bored. Sam’s on one of those wild goose chases he loves so much, leaving his older brother alone in the hotel room. How could a guy pass the time?

 

     The question no sooner passes through his mind when it hits him. _I could test the the theory out._ Their current case was absolutely strange, even by their standards. Itching powder that made you scratch your brains out. Your face getting frozen that way. Pop rocks and coke giving you stomach ulcers. All the things you're taught to fear as a kid. All the things you grew up to know were just scare tactics parents used to get their kids to listen.

 

     Or, in his case, to stop spending so much … alone time … in the bathroom as an adolescent. Because John Winchester wasn’t the sort of parent to spin tall tales to his boys. They knew there was no Santa or Easter Bunny. There were no coins left behind by fairies in exchange for teeth (fairies were to be feared). But sometime in the early nineties - when John walked into a motel bathroom to be greeted by an ice cold shower yet again - he threw the little white lie Sam and Dean’s way. So, well, now seems as good a time as any to see if that old legend about what happened to guys when they engaged in -  _self-admiration -_ was still alive and kicking.

 

     Dean passes by the window, drawing the curtains fully shut. He checks to make sure the door is locked - hooking the chain for extra insurance he wouldn’t be interrupted by an overzealous member of the cleaning staff or the master of the inopportune entrance that was his brother. As he makes his way over to the bed, a funny feeling hits Dean. He’s a little nervous. It’s been over _a month_ since he’s had … a particular kind of release. He’s been laser-focused on the whole hunt and kill the Devil thing, on stopping the apocalypse (and sure, getting a little revenge in too). Which happened to conveniently occupy all the time that would be spent having a good old-fashioned panic about having been in - really _been in_ \- a relationship with Cas for a solid month. Before it all went to hell.

 

     It takes one errant thought of the angel to have Dean standing at attention. He chastises his mind for _going there_ , but it’s not enough to keep him from rubbing at the growing hardness pressing against denim.

 

     Dean flops his body down onto his bed, quickly shoving his jeans towards his ankles. He slowly begins to stroke his cock with a spit-slicked hand as his mind searches for appropriate inspiration.

 

     He scrolls through scenes he’s memorized from all the internet has to offer. It starts off with the pretty vanilla department of the crank bank  - some of Casa Erotica’s better offerings. He lingers on a doctor-nurse scenario. _That flirty nurse earlier was pretty cute_ , Dean thinks, pleased with himself that, despite the world going to hell in a handbasket he could still manage to appreciate the … finer things. And so he picks up the pace, twisting his palm and squeezing the head of his dick just the way he like, trying to remember each one of the woman’s features.

 

     But his mind gets stuck on her hair, a shade not quite brown, not quite black.

 

     And just like that, she’s gone, and Cas is back.

 

     On his knees between Dean’s legs, licking a stripe up Dean’s hardness, savouring the taste of Dean’s precome collecting at the tip of his head. Those perfect hands digging into the flesh of Dean’s ass as they lift his frame deeper and deeper into his mouth. Looking up at Dean, the blues of his eyes just thin slivers around enormous pools of black.

 

     There’s part of Dean that thinks he should stop, but that part is being overruled by every nerve ending in his body shouting yes, _keep going, the imagination is a beautiful and wonderous thing,_ by muscles that buck his hips up into the now wholly firm and frantic grasp of his hand. He can nearly feel Cas’s stubble scrape against the base of his cock, taking all of Dean into that holy thing that was his mouth.

 

     Dean’s eyes clamp shut as he pictures the angel wildly bobbing up and down on his head, thrusting his throat down on the hunter, moaning each and every time his length disappears, as his and Cas’s bodies become one.

 

     Dean’s whole body is in spasms as he’s at the cusp, needing the smallest push to get him there.

 

     “ _Come for me Dean,”_ Cas whispers, his face now resting on Dean’s belly as his lithe fingers twist around Dean’s cock, painting his face and Dean’s stomach. Dean’s still coming as he imagines Cas licking up each and every drop, as if it was sacred.

 

     It takes two whole minutes for Dean to come down from that high, for his breathing to return to normal, his heart to once again beat at a steady pace.

 

     He cleans himself up quickly with yesterday’s t-shirt, shoving it deep into his duffel, hiding the evidence from Sammy.

 

     The shirt is no sooner tucked below clashing plaid when Dean notices it.

  
     The hairs rapidly growing on his palm, a middle school nightmare realized.


	23. Wellington, Ohio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We find out where Cas has been this past month as Sam and Dean have been on the road. Turns out, he's taken one out of the Dean Winchester handbook for how to deal with feelings and stuff.
> 
> I'm a jerk for this one, guys. I admit it.

* * *

 

    _“Ready for another one?”_

 

    Castiel doesn’t hear the question. As his fingers pick away at the maroon label around yet another empty bottle, his head’s in the clouds.

 

    Figuratively, that is.

 

    As far as Cas is concerned, heaven’s still sort of a no-fly zone right now. While at the moment his brethren upstairs were far too concerned stacking the deck against Lucifer to hunt Castiel down for his disobedience, he still was somewhat of a _persona non grata_ behind the pearly gates. Aiding and abetting the Winchesters didn’t make you many friends. And when he had ducked in - trying to find any sort of lead that would help throw a wrench in the whole apocalypse thing - he’d quickly be reminded why he’d stayed away. Turns out that Lucifer’s comedic chops had an audience amongst the angels. Castiel playing house - with a human no less - was pretty damn funny to the celestial crowd.

 

    They acted like he should be humiliated - as if his month with Dean was the supernatural equivalent of showing up to class in your underwear. Which only made Castiel’s feelings about the situation that much harder to process. Confusing, human emotions.

 

    And so he left heaven. He first sought refuge in familiar comforts - in gardens, on shorelines. He followed sunsets through every time zone. But those old serenities suddenly felt hollow. Because in their quiet, Castiel was forced to confront the truth resounding with every beat of this human heart. A truth heaven could not permit.

 

    Castiel felt no shame for loving Dean Winchester.

 

    Two fingers snap in front of him, not six inches away from his face. The sound brings Castiel back down to earth - back to the slightly irritated bartender before him, clearing away another empty in the sort of nondescript dive that had become his refuge. Where the floors were sticky and the beers were cheap - where the jukebox contained precisely zero records released after 1983.

 

    The sort of place Dean would adore. Maybe that’s why Cas found comfort in these sorts of places.

 

    The alcohol helped too.

 

    “I’m sorry, what?” Castiel asks of the bartender - a woman with vibrant ruby lips and arms covered in various faded tattoos.

 

     _“You ready for another?”_

 

    For a fraction of a second, Castiel tunes out all the ambient noise of the bar - the soft buzzing of the inner workings of the television - the ice that hit the teeth of the man at the end of the bar as he finishes his sixth rum and coke. He listens for any sign of Dean - before ordering another one.

 

    It’s been like this since Pontiac. Cas waiting - giving Sam and Dean space. Popping in when he’d get a call or text or half a prayer. And then - back to waiting.

 

    “Here you go buddy. Hell of a tolerance you got. Better not be driving,” the bartender says as she passes Cas his tenth beer of the day.

 

     _Buddy._

 

    Cas smiles for the first time in days. He liked that word.

 

    “No car for me,” he promises her as he takes the first long drag of his beer, looking once again at his cell phone. No new messages.

 

    No need for him.

 

    Castiel again picks at the paper on the glass, pulling it off strip by strip. Waiting.

 

    Listening to quarters slide into the jukebox. The track begins, each note softly bouncing off the room’s wooden walls before landing at his ears. Castiel finds his thumb tapping to the slow, steady beat. Holding onto the hope that what is done was not completely done.

 

    “Jesus, Marv! Not this one again!” the bartender complains to the squirrely looking man - who had taken his seat once again as the music begun.

 

    “Hmm. I like it,” Castiel mutters under his breath. The song is sad and sweet all at once. Feelings Castiel once felt were diametrically opposed. He knew better now.

 

    “Listen, I dig Elvis as much as the next girl…”

 

     _Dear Cas._

 

    Suddenly, everything fades, save for Dean’s voice.

 

     _I hope to God you’ve got your ears on. I  - we need you. Don’t know where the hell we are but - we’re dealing with the fucking Trickster. Again. One minute we’re working a case - Wellington, Ohio - Next minute we’re stuck in some sort of silver screen hell. Have I mentioned I have had it up to here with…_

  
    Dean doesn’t finish his complaint before Castiel has settled his bill. No longer waiting. Once again needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always wondered where Cas hung out between cases in season five. Because yeah, he wasn't exactly chummy with those upstairs at that point.


	24. Carthage, Missouri

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I rewatched this season as I was writing this to get the details I wanted to include right. And guys? Season five (while still my favourite) is a total bummer. Like here I am, Queen Angst, and my version of events still manages to be slightly happier. My God. This chapter deals with the events of "Abandon All Hope." Otherwise known as one of the fifty or so SPN episodes I can't get through without crying.

* * *

 

 

    Carthage’s soil was still stuck to the soles of their shoes when they landed. When Castiel, with great caution and hesitation, unwrapped his wings, wings that had shielded the Winchesters from Lucifer’s wrath.

 

    Because as soon as he let go, as soon as the threat was no longer there, then, then they all need to face it. That each of them had looked the Devil square in the eye and been worse for it. The losses suffered, on that field once again the scene of civil war. Of the unspeakable grief each of the men felt for the two left behind on that city’s streets.

 

    Defeat hangs thick in the air of Bobby Singer’s study. Of best laid plans foiled by their foe - of no direction left to proceed. They survived - but in the moment, that hardly seemed something worth celebrating. No, each of the men quickly began compiling a list as to why the impending end of the world was personally their fault.

 

    Bobby’s calloused fingers pass over the photo, the portrait he had insisted they all take. Staring at the faces he’d never get a chance to look at again. At Jo. At Ellen. At the life he’d been a fool enough to imagine he could have - the happy ending he’d think about in his weaker moments. As he watches the celluloid engulfed by the flames, he blames himself and this damn wheelchair once again. Because if anyone should have died aiding and abetting the Winchesters, it should have been him.

 

    Sam’s slumped over in an armchair, his palms pressed firmly against the temples of his forehead, trying not to give into the self-loathing overtaking him. Two words pass through his mind, over and over again. _Six months_. The timeline that Lucifer seemed all too certain would come true. Those two words ringing menacingly as the images of _all those bodies, all those graves_ refused to be cast away. The way in which that battlefield was soaked in blood once more. Deaths that would weigh heavy on Sam’s conscience, his soul. Each lost life another one placed upon the scale - another mistake Sam would do penance for - another piece of evidence that the boy with the demon blood was irrevocably bound with Hell.

 

    Dean moved towards the kitchen to grab a beer he was desperate to consume in record time - stopped dead in his tracks by the sight of the refrigerator. That conversation with Jo - the last real one they’d had - where he treated her like some anonymous chick he’d pick up at the seediest bar some small town could offer.

 

    How much he wished he could take that moment back.

 

    The way she rebuked his offer, appealing to her own sense of self-respect. But also the way her eyes darted towards something else as Dean defaulted to shameless flirting. Towards someone else. How she was smart enough to know it’d never work between the two of them. How clear it was to her that - if he was just brave enough - Dean would let himself admit he knew exactly who he wanted to spend his last night on earth with.

 

    Castiel watches the frozen Dean from beside the table. The table from which he had done that row of shots with the two female hunters. Their smiles were warm and kind. _If only I hadn’t left them behind_.

 

    Suddenly, another row of shots sounds like the most splendid idea on Earth.

 

    But Bobby’s holding that bottle of Johnny Walker close to his chest, like it’s the only comfort he’s got left in this world. Sam’s uncharacteristically silent - being taunted by Lucifer will do that to a guy.

 

    Castiel has only begun to appreciate the nuance of human emotion this last year on earth. But even he is adept enough to know that this place - being here - it’s not helping. And so he musters up the strength usually reserved for vanquishing the very worst Hell has to offer to take a first step. And then another. Ten steps towards Dean, placing his hand on the hunter’s shoulder, wresting him from his catatonic state.

 

    “What would you say to a drink? I’m buying.”

 

    The touch is small and tentative. But it is enough. Enough for Dean to collapse into. Nothing was going right for him in the world right now and he was tired. Too tired to give a single fuck about personal space. Because right now, what he needs is a friend - a best friend. Someone who knows and cares and will just sit on the stool next to him. To talk. To not talk. Just to be close - to let Dean know he’s not alone.

 

    And so Dean gives his answer in the best way he can. Through a gesture he hopes will tell Cas he’s sorry for being distant - that he cares - that he trusts him - that he needs him. Dean fishes the Impala’s keys from the pocket of his jeans and places them into Cas’s palm.

  
    “You drive.”


	25. Lawrence, Kansas (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The events of this chapter (and the next) are supposed to coincide with the wonderful "The Song Remains the Same."

* * *

 

 

    Dean was relieved.

 

    Out there, in the real world, heaven and hell were in dubious battle to be more villainous than the other. Wreaking havoc left and right. But this place? This place was safe, left untarnished by Lucifer or Michael. This was a place where clouds and flames were just set decorations, where devils and angels were no more than two of his very favourite stripper personas.

 

    And these ladies - well, they were putting on one hell of an opening act. In fact, they were just about to start working on some … _interdimensional unity_ mere inches from Dean’s face when it all stopped.

 

    The dream began to fade - began to be tainted by the duty and responsibility that plagued Dean for his twenty waking hours each day.

 

    At least this time, duty had a pretty face. A familiar face. Anna.

 

     _“This is what you dream about.”_

 

    The scarlet-haired angel did not look impressed. Nothing like an ex to rain on a guy’s parade.

 

    The setting wasn’t the only reason the whole encounter was a wee bit awkward. No -- the lion’s share of that was due to the name Dean couldn’t help but drop when Anna mentioned the difficulty she had finding him.

 

     _“Oh. Cas did this thing.”_ Dean gestured towards his ribcage, as if that would somehow clarify things. His fingers grazing the bones that so closely guarded his heart.

 

    Anna recoils at her brother’s name. _“Cas. Right. Now, there's a friend you can count on.”_

 

    And in under a minute, halos and feathers have gone from titillating back to irritating. Because if there was one thing Cas’s kind knew how to do all too well, it was to hold onto a grudge. And so Anna launches into her attack against Castiel, upon whose shoulders she rests the blame of her imprisonment.

 

    The facts are on Anna’s side. And yet, when she speaks of Castiel as _“a good little soldier,”_ someone who’d _“do anything under orders,”_ Dean feels his fingers curl in, fists formed. Because if that was the Castiel Anna knew, it wasn’t Cas anymore. He’d rebelled.

 

     _For Dean. Because of Dean._

 

    So damn straight Dean was gonna feel a bit protective about the guy. He’d earned that much. And then some.

 

    When Dean wakes up, suddenly wishing there were angel sigils for the unconscious mind, he takes in the dark of the motel room, turning towards his brother. Still sleeping. A state Dean seemed fated not to share. The hunter slouches towards the door, shutting the door behind him quietly, not a big enough dick to deprive Rapunzel of her beauty sleep.

 

    His eyelids are drooping and he’s nearly nodding off as he makes the call.

 

    “Hello Dean.”

 

    “Cas, we’ve got a problem.”

 

xxxxx

 

    The warehouse is cloaked in darkness, still and silent. Until a gust of wind whispers its way past Anna’s ears. She turns around to search for another soul within the space.

 

     _Hello? Who’s there?_

 

    The answer comes in the form of a dozen shattered light bulbs and a shower of sparks. _Not Dean._ Castiel could haven’t announced himself more clearly.

 

_Well. If I didn't know any better, I'd say the Winchesters don't trust me._

 

    It’s the cadence of her voice that gives her away. The change - so slight it wouldn’t even be perceptible to others. But the shift in register - the pain that’s been carved into her vocal chords - every scream and plea made to her brothers and sisters behind bars left a mark in her voice.

 

    So Castiel knows, if Anna is out, it is because her will was broken. Which to their brothers and sisters meant she was repaired. Fixed. Back to factory-issued condition. She need not admit it - she could keep her story going that she had escaped.

 

    Castiel knew it was true. Because it had happened to him.

 

    The steel of Anna’s blade glimmers in the dark. As he approaches, Cas sees himself in its reflection. The two of them mirrors of one another. She the living proof he had once so desperately needed - evidence that angels could follow their own paths. The only one who commended his rebellion - the only one who understood the need to follow one’s heart.

 

     The fallen angel restored searches for the obedient soldier she hopes still lives within Castiel. As she says the words whose truth Castiel has spent the better part of the year desperately trying to refute.

 

     _Sam Winchester has to die._

 

     _No choice._

 

    It is a fate Castiel is unwilling to accept.

 

     _We'll find another way_ , he hears himself say. _We._ Because Sam is his friend. Because Castiel has changed. Because Dean had lost Sam before and he couldn’t - he wouldn’t do that to Dean. And so, for someone refusing a sure way to handicap the Devil - Castiel is surprisingly certain in his stance. Knowing it is not a threat but a promise that he delivers to Anna.

  
_You come near Sam Winchester and I'll kill you._

 

    Anna takes him at his word, disappearing. To where - Castiel does not know.

 

xxxxx

 

    By the time Castiel arrives back at the motel room, Sam has finally woken from his slumber, ready for all the details of his impending assassination. But if Dean had his way, the three of them would be avoiding that conversation entirely. And so he adopted a tried and true method to eschew uncomfortable conversations- making all sorts of references he knew Castiel would not get. All because Dean just couldn’t let go of the hope he harbored that, if they just didn’t talk about the fact that Sam had a hitman tracking him down, it would cease to be true.

 

    But his plan clearly wasn’t working because, even though Cas was a lost puppy as usual with Dean’s line about _Fatal Attraction_ , Sam seemed more than happy to talk about Anna’s plan - hell, he even entertained its merit.

 

     _So the plan to kill me, would it actually stop Satan?_

 

    Dean practically watches the gears run in Sam’s mind. The way he was considering it - the prayer he might be thinking about sending Anna’s way. Dean knows what his brother is thinking because he knows _he’d be thinking it too_ , if their roles were reversed. It’s the way that the Winchesters were built - ever eager to throw their lives away.

 

    But there’s another thing about the Winchesters. They were not going to give up on each other. And so Dean refuses to let Sam get out of this that easily. Sam’s prepared for Dean’s protest, and so he turns his attention elsewhere.

 

_Cas, what do you think? Does Anna have a point?_

 

   Sam’s inquiry leads to a telepathic conversation. One where eyes say everything lips cannot; where the pleas for help pour from Dean’s green towards Castiel. Where, in Castiel’s eyes, Dean finds strength and solace. Where an agreement is forged between the two to protect Sam from whoever’s wrath he’d earned this week. How willing the angel was to shield Sammy from harm’s way. Dean admired that.

 

    All of that happens in that second or two that Castiel and Dean look at one another. But of course, none of that is said aloud. No, because Castiel’s response to Sam’s question says nothing about the fact that the angel has embraced the end of his own existence to help the Winchesters see this through. Because he could not - would not - let Sam and Dean face Lucifer alone.

 

     He could not and would not leave Dean’s side. He’d be right there with them, as long as they’d have him.

  
    Dean was relieved.


	26. Lawrence, Kansas (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Again, happening in the timeframe of "The Song Remains the Same." Enjoy!

 

* * *

 

    Lucky.

 

    How strange it is that Dean feels lucky.

 

    Because times are bad - terrible, really, downright apocalyptic, and Dean feels lucky. To have someone in this world to help - someone else who'd look out for Sammy. Someone who chose him - who’d stay with him through better and worse - hell, who had stayed with him, leaving behind the better they knew with one another for the worse of reality - who -

 

    Dean is lost in that wave of gratitude when Castiel begins the incantation, mumbling some syllables in Enochian that produces a burst of red flame. And then the gratitude is gone - replaced by fear and worry. Because Cas has got his eyes closed tightly and is breathing heavily, unsteady on his feet. But he’s got their answer and it’s back in 1978. On her way to off John and Mary Winchester. Before Sam was even a twinkle in his parents’ eyes.

 

   The question pounds against Dean’s forehead. It's too much to ask. Because Cas still doesn’t look quite right after a spell - how the hell was he gonna manage flinging them back in time - without heaven’s help?

 

    But there’s no other way, no one else on their side. So Dean asks. Even though he’s trembling - even though he’s admitted to Dean in a voice shaking _— it'll weaken me._ A euphemism if Dean's ever heard one. Cause he knows that Cas is pretty certain that their blast into the past will be a one way trip. But of course, that’s not enough to keep the angel from packing holy oil and his blade for the journey without any further hesitation.

 

    Yes, Dean was lucky. Lucky to have Cas.

 

    But maybe not deserving.

 

xxxxx

 

    Frankly, Cas is surprised they all ended up in the right century. Because time travel was never easy - not even when he was one of heaven’s poster boys. And doing it from memory, without their assistance? It was like navigating to a place you’d flown over once. Without a map. Or a plane. Or a parachute.

 

    He hadn’t expected to survive.

 

    But here he was, in the honeymoon suite Dean had booked for the week, on strict orders to rest. Gain back his strength. The demand was a lot easier to follow because it came from Dean. He only meant to shut his eyes for a minute or two, let his vessel recover. But soon enough, Cas is knocked out, shifting from one memory to another ceaselessly. He know’s he’s unconscious because he’s been here before. It’s a memory he both cherishes and hates - from right before their life together - from that blessed time that had soon become a curse. They had just been run out of that den of iniquity, barrelling down the road together. The quiet of that small town street disrupted by Dean’s laughter. Laughing at him, with him. Laughing unencumbered - which meant something. Because the last few weeks had been hard on Dean - going his separate way from Sam - dealing with the nightmare of having Lucifer topside. But in this moment, Dean is carefree. And Cas is part of that moment.

 

    Once again they end back up at that motel room in Maine. Once again Dean invites Cas in for a drink. The angel sits tentatively at the edge of the bed, running his fingers on the royal blue comforter while Dean fetches two glasses and a bottle buried at the bottom of his bag. The glass is cool beneath Castiel’s fingertips. The whiskey is warm.

 

    “So,” Dean starts, his body leaning against the small table of the room. He takes a quick sip from his tumbler as he goes on. “I guess the whole popping your cherry thing was a bust.”

 

    Castiel drums his feet on the shag carpet, refusing to lift his head. “It’s okay.”

 

    Dean sets the glass down on the wooden surface as he takes responsibility. “No it’s not. When I put my mind to something, I am used to getting it done.”

 

    Wanting nothing more in the world right now than to put this topic to bed, Castiel slowly lifts his head, meeting Dean’s line of sight. “Really Dean, it’s okay. Besides … those women …” Suddenly, the words are hard to bring forth. The angel can only manage to whisper.  “That’s not how I wanted it to be.”

 

    Dean waits for elaboration. But Castiel seems particularly terse tonight. The hunter finishes his drink in one, long, continuous sip before delving in. Just a little deeper. “There was a way you pictured it? I mean - you’ve thought about it before?”

 

    Castiel hesitates - both then and now. The only feeling resounding through him at the moment is the absolute lack of desire to talk about this. Not that Dean could understand but - it was strange for him to have these feelings. Angels were equipped for love - love of God, love of Faith, even love for Creation - but he hadn’t known that he could want love in that way.

 

    Until 2008.

 

    Until Dean.

 

    There is a part of Castiel that wanted to say it then. There is a part of him now that wants to rewrite the transcript. But he knows how this scene plays out. “Jimmy - he is gone. In heaven. But there are still some memories of his that … linger.” Dean does not interrupt. “Like one where he first sees a pretty blonde in a coffee shop on campus. How seeing her made his heart stop for just a second. How he felt the first time he kissed her and the first time she said she loved him. How he couldn’t imagine a greater happiness than that little blue plus sign they both saw together.”

 

    Castiel looks off towards the door, wondering why he is no longer laconic, wondering how it could be so easy to talk about Jimmy’s feelings and so difficult to confront his own. Knowing Dean was probably privately chastising the sentimentality he was espousing. “It might be cliche, but that kind of love - it has a power I am only beginning to understand.” Dean is uncharacteristically taciturn. “Sorry for the chick-flick moment,” the angel apologizes.

 

    Dean taps his fingers on the desk, before pouring himself another drink. Armed with alcohol, he cuts the space between the two men, sitting next to Castiel - close - almost close enough to touch - just far enough. “No Cas. I know that I talk a big game - but I - I don’t really have a choice other than to love em and leave em. Wouldn’t be safe.”

 

    “For them or for you?”

 

    Dean stares down into his drink, seeing his small smile reflected back in the amber liquid. Before pulling his eyes upward and looking at Castiel’s - blue, curious, kind.

 

    “Both, I guess.”

 

    “But could you - would you - could you ever see yourself with a life like Jimmy and Amelia?” the angel asks, not sure what answer he wants to hear.

 

    “Dunno if I believe in that soulmates stuff. I mean - I know they were - fated to be with one another and all that - but I dunno Cas. I think there’s something to doing something because you want to - not because you’re meant to.”

 

    “But then,” Castiel responds, “then it’s all luck. Finding someone who you can make a life with. What if you don’t get lucky?”

 

    “Then you make your own luck. You find someone who cares and you -- you make a life together. As you go along.”

 

    Castiel freezes the moment there. Dean ventriloquizing his own words. What those words coming from Dean’s mouth might have admitted - if Castiel had only been brave enough to really hear their meaning.

 

    But the moment can’t stay frozen forever. It ends with Dean making some self-effacing comment. “But anyway - what do I know? There is only one kind of lucky I’ve ever gotten when it comes to romance -- and it ain’t the kind Nora Ephron makes movies about.”

 

    “Whose Nora --”

 

    “Chick flicks.”

 

    “Oh.”

 

    And then Dean yawns - maybe in earnest, maybe to end the moment. Because Castiel in that moment stands and invents an errand to run, and Dean says something about getting some shut-eye.

 

    Castiel shuts off the light before he goes, but not before he tells him.

 

    “For what it’s worth - I think you’ll have the other kind of luck someday, Dean.”

 

    Dean huffs the disbelief through his nose before closing his eyes. “Thanks Cas.”

 

    “Goodnight Dean.”

 

xxxxx

 

    Dean Winchester was sick about hearing about fate. Heaven and Hell seemed to be in accord on that topic and that topic alone. That Sam and Dean were fated to be vessels for the two dueling archangels. That John and Mary were fated to fall in love - to blend together the Campbell and Winchester lineages. That the end days were already written - not to be erased.

 

    Because in this motel room - with an ex-blood junkie and comatose angel the only ones at his side, he had to believe in something more than fate. In free will. In making your own luck.

 

    Because if fate really was immutable - if it really was a fact and not a theory - well then, why was everyone trying so hard to convince him?

  
     No, fate was something for those who were too scared to live with their own choices. To follow their own hearts. And Dean? Dean was just about ready to listen to his.


	27. Heaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter blends together some aspects of "My Bloody Valentine" and "Dark Side of the Moon" and makes both episodes a little less sad because, DEAR GOD, end of season five is so depressing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rest of this fic is all planned out and will be posted within the next week, because I'm on winter vacation and back to being total Destiel trash. Thanks for your patience, my angels!

 

* * *

 

    Any lingering uncertainty was quickly clarified that Valentine’s Day. Sam was right - Dean wasn’t enjoying Unattached Drifter Christmas. Given the number of bedposts he had been a notch in - given his usual appetite - he should be ravenous for one carnal desire or another. And yet, while others fell victim to their vices, Dean endured it all, without so much as a STD, scratch or a stomachache.

 

    Famine supposed it was because he was dead inside. The Horseman was wrong. It was just that Dean was so practiced in the art of repression, he was able to masquerade his feelings as hopelessness. But really - he did feel hunger. For love, for happiness.

 

    For Cas.

 

    It was a truth that resounded through him as that Horseman wreaked havoc. And it was a truth he no longer wished to cast away. For these past few months had resolved one thing for Dean; that though he might not have asked for it, though he might have tried to ignore it, rationalize it, fight it, there was no use. He loved Castiel. It wasn’t simply admiration nor a sense of indebtedness for all the angel had done for them. Nor was it friendship, comradery or any other manner in which he attempted to make sense of the bond he felt towards the angel.

 

    Because as the angel ate burger after burger - as his brother gave into his worst addiction - what Dean longed for was the happiness he once knew in the angel’s arms. A lifetime spent at his side, fighting the worst the world could throw at them. Together. Dean thought - he knew - that he and Castiel could be happy together, if he was willing to take that leap.

 

    And he was willing. But, ever disciplined, Dean would not and could not give into what he craved most in this world. Because Lucifer had given him that - at the expense of humanity. And it couldn’t be like that again - not until Lucifer was no longer a threat.

 

    It wasn’t that Dean wasn’t hungry. He was starving. It was just that he was always willing to go without what he needed, if that’s what was called for.

 

xxxxx

 

    So while the intensity of the hunger dulled after Sam destroyed Famine, it didn’t go away. But it became easier to manage. So skilled was Dean at denying his own satisfaction, fantasies of sharing a happy ending with Cas became prohibited even in dreams. Because thinking about himself at times like this - that was the height of selfishness. His happy ending would have to wait for when they - if they - all survived this. And that was a mighty big if.

 

    Those were the thoughts passing through Dean Winchester’s mind when he went to bed in an utterly average motel room somewhere in America’s heartland - three feet away from his brother. But they were not the thoughts with which he woke. No - Dean felt nothing but a piercing sense of regret at that moment. Because he was staring down the barrel of a gun, Walt and Roy’s guns, to be precise - his plans for happiness _some day_ be damned.

 

    But he didn’t have much time to worry about all that. Because it only takes two pulls of a trigger for all of those worries to go to Hell.

 

    Or Heaven, to be more precise.

 

    And soon enough, Dean’s in a familiar and precious moment.1996. The best Fourth of July he ever had - with Sam - when they were _almost_ normal - in some field with nothing but a trunkful of fireworks, a lighter and adolescent glee.

 

    Together, lighting up the sky.

 

    Until the explosions cease - the image of Walt’s gun flashing through Dean’s mind - and once again, he’s alone.

 

xxxxx

 

    Alone, until he hears Cas’s voice through the Impala’s speakers. _It’s a spell_ , he tells Dean. To connect with Dean while he’s in heaven, to guide him towards Sam, towards Joshua. He tells him that he needs to travel this road, but Dean’s reluctant. Because the recently departed has to admit - Cas’s voice within this car - it’s home, and it hurts to leave it behind.

 

    But leave it Dean must - for a reunion with Sam - in all those moments his younger brother called heaven. The Thanksgiving dinner - the shack in Flagstaff - the last moment before Stanford. All with one common theme that wound Dean to his core.

 

    That Sam’s alone. That - in his happiest memories, Dean was nowhere to be found.

 

     _I mean, we’re supposed to be a team. It’s supposed to be you and me against the world, right?_ he hears himself mutter in a devastated voice he swears can’t be his own.

 

    And so the two brothers stand in that moment of the younger Winchester’s move for independence - Sam’s heaven and Dean’s hell.

 

    “I didn’t ask for this,” Sam reminds his brother.

 

    Dean’s too tired to argue. And so he turns away.

 

    “No - Dean, there’s no avoiding it. I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t plan for this heaven, and I sure didn’t plan for this life. I tried to get away.”

 

     _And I pulled you back into it - kicking and screaming - every time._

 

    “I never wanted to get away from you. When I left - it wasn’t because of you. It was because of me. I wanted to - I still want to - make something on my own.”

 

    Dean knows it’s not fair. Sammy can’t help it.

 

    “But Dean you can’t think for a minute that means I don’t love you. Mystery Spot? Not here. That month I couldn’t find you - that’s not up here, is it? I was on my own and it was the kind of solitude I never want to experience again. It’s just … heaven to you is a companion. Taking care of me as a kid. Spending time with mom. For me it’s - it’s finding out who I am. Beyond what I’m supposed to be. Finding out who I can become. I’ve tried a few times but - something’s always gotten in the way. If we make it through this - Dean - I still have to try.”

 

    Dean shuffles his feet on heavenly asphalt. “So what - we manage to put Lucifer six feet under and you just walk away? Again?”

 

    “Dean - I just need you to - I need to be able to make choices for myself. Maybe that’s hunting. Maybe it’s going back to school. I don’t know what the hell it is. But it’s not - it can’t be taking orders. Not from Heaven or Hell.”

 

    “And not from me.”

 

    “Dean, I love you. And we are a team. But I don’t think that has to mean we can’t also have what we each want outside of one another. For me, that’s some time to figure out what’s next. The question is - what’s that for you?”

 

    Dean doesn’t answer. But as the two brothers walk once more down the road, towards Joshua, the scenery tells Sam all he needs to know. Because they walk into one more part of Dean’s heaven.

  
    A lake, a sunset, and an angel’s head on his shoulder.


	28. Blue Earth, Minnesota

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas's perspective in "99 Problems." I know that they play it for laughs in the episode - but man, it kills me to watch my little angel hurt. Also, I might have some low-key angry feelings about how Cas is treated as a character that season.

* * *

 

    Castiel had a rough year. Getting cut off from heaven, killing his brothers and sisters as if they were demons, barreling towards the apocalypse on the side of neither of the likely victors. And then there was, of course, the situation with Dean. Distance from their last kiss should have eased the ache. After all - romantic love - it wasn’t something angels were supposed to desire.

 

    But then again, for some time now, Castiel had been relatively inadequate at being a proper angel. That much had been made clear to him by his brothers and sisters on both sides of the battle. Still, through it all, he had managed to hold onto some hope. He had been resurrected once after rebellion - by his Father, he presumed. He took that to mean that - despite falling, despite the shame of being cast out - he was doing what was right. His actions had his Father’s blessing.

 

    But then Sam and Dean returned from the dead with the very worst of news. That Joshua had heard from the Man himself that He would not intervene. That his brother and sisters’ schemes would be allowed to proceed without any impediment from their Creator.

 

    For Castiel, that was the last straw. Because he had been staying strong. For Sam. For Dean. For the humanity for whom he fell. Picking up the pieces, doing whatever needed to be done.

 

    When was it his turn to fall apart?

 

    So when Sam and Dean called to check in, he let it go to voicemail. When Dean sent message after message saying _they needed to talk_ , Castiel let them clutter his inbox without response. He knew that Dean had a lifetime of fatherly abandonment issues. It was kind of him to reach out, but it wasn’t enough. Castiel didn’t want his pity - he wanted his love.

 

    And if he couldn’t have that, he wanted to feel nothing at all.

 

    And so he fortified himself with bottle after bottle, searching to become numb. To stop feeling - for lack of a better term -  so fucking human.

 

    Missing every call Dean was making - each thwarted attempt to disclose the fact that Dean was ready and willing, if the angel would only listen.

 

xxxxx

 

    Dean didn’t tell Cas how he felt in Minnesota. It didn’t seem right, what, with Cas contending with perhaps the worst hangover in the history of the universe. Dean felt like he’d be taking advantage of Cas at his lowest if this was when he spilled his feelings to him. That he hadn’t stopped thinking of being with him for a single day since they had parted. That his heaven seemed built for two - he’d like his life to be the same.

 

    Dean doesn’t tell Cas how he feels, but he tries to show it. In a distinctly Dean Winchester way. By throwing him a bottle of aspirin and affirming that deadbeat dads were the worst. For a second, Cas smiles. It’s a nice moment.

 

    It emboldens Dean to admit something to Cas - just not what he was expecting he might. Because what comes out of Dean’s mouth is not a proposal, but a confession. That he’d never thought he’d be this close to breaking - to saying yes to Michael. That their run-in with the Whore of Babylon has him thinking they’ve run out of options and are nearly out of time.

 

   Cas tells Dean it’s never too late. Dean prays that it is true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The angst of this one - well, Cas did just lose faith in God! But I feel mean so I will be posting the next chapter tonight. I think it will make you very happy.


	29. Sioux Falls, South Dakota

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter makes me very happy. That is all I will say. Besides that it is NSFW. Oh! And that it is a very liberal re-interpretation of the events of "Point of No Return." Enjoy.

* * *

 

    To his credit, Dean still hadn’t said yes. Sure - he was making arrangements - weighing his options - trying to hedge their bets - but he hadn’t said yes to Michael.

 

    But then Castiel had crash-landed in Bobby’s living room with Adam. No longer dearly departed. As soon as the youngest progeny of John Winchester was in their midst, the other members of Team Free Will knew precisely where Dean would be running off to next. That he would never let Adam take his place, never want him to bear his burden. And so they did the only reasonable thing they could think to do.

 

    They locked him in Bobby’s basement.

 

    And that’s where he stayed for hours. Replaying the day’s events over and over in his mind. How he’d joked about heaven being third base to Adam and told Cas to blow him within the span of a minute. How Cas looked at him with such desperation and anguish, such a visceral need to stop Dean from throwing himself to the slaughter -- that was why that ill-advised joke about getting laid fell from his lips.

 

    Because - both Dean and Cas knew - that the last person to look at Dean like that was … Cas. Dean hoped he’d be the next too. And the final. But those weren’t thoughts Dean could entertain at the present moment. Because he had to do - whatever it took - to get the hell out of here and find Michael.

 

    Even if that meant hurting Cas. He knew the angel would hover nearby - he knew he wouldn’t be able to help himself from checking in on Dean, even if he seemed to be monumentally disappointed in him. Dean knew all of that and that knowledge was all he had to work with at the moment.

 

    That didn’t make it hurt any less when he slammed a bloody hand on the sigil, banishing Castiel to God knows where. Didn’t make the sting of Castiel’s face - the distinct look of betrayal splashed across his features - not burn.

 

xxxxx

 

    It had been precisely an hour and a half since Dean had taken off running from Bobby’s when he saw the wannabe preacher. Talking about the swiftly approaching “End of Days” as a crowd does their best to move past him without eye contact. It’s funny - just a year and a half ago, Dean would have done the same thing. Would have been convinced this guy was spinning lies, totally out of his gourd.

 

    But then an angel reached into the deepest depths of Hell and saved him. Made Dean believe.

 

    The hunter shakes away the image of Castiel’s face, worrying he’ll lose his nerve if he lingers too long on ice blue eyes and divinely carved cheekbones and the deep gravel of his voice. To talk to the man who insists he’s got an audience amongst the angels - a man who can’t be totally fabricating the connection because his mouth transforms into a gape at the mention of Dean’s name.

 

    And so that doomsday soothsayer prays. But dials the wrong extension.

 

    The only one of heaven’s kind listening right now is the one from whom Dean is trying so desperately to run. Because - before he knows it - he’s being grabbed by lapels from that street corner into a back alley. Closing his eyes tightly, bracing himself for a blow that doesn’t land.

 

    When Dean’s eyes open once more, he’s no longer on that beer-soaked street. No, he’s back in Bobby’s panic room. Locked inside. This time - not alone.

 

    Dean had mustered up the strength to push Castiel away once. But now, as he looks at the angel - hurt, angry, dejected - Dean is exhausted. He is tired of running. So he doesn’t dare pull out his blade to send Cas off again. He doesn’t put up his fists to try to take Castiel down hand to hand or die trying.

 

    Dean sits on the edge of that well-worn mattress, his eyes nervously darting towards the angel looming overhead.

 

    He expects Cas’s tone to be harsh. Hell, he deserved as much. The way he treated him - especially how he pulled away after their life together came crashing down - Dean was due a rant. Maybe even one where he ended up bloodied and beaten.

 

    But when Cas finally moves to speak - to finally let loose everything he’s held back - his voice is soft, fragile. There is a slight tremble to his lips.

 

_I rebelled for this? So that you could surrender to them?_

 

    Dean drops his gaze towards the concrete below in a foolish attempt to avoid the truth. But then - two fingers press against his temple. Flooding Dean with every thought and feeling - every sacrifice - of Castiel’s since the first time he laid a hand upon Dean in hell. He opens his eyes - wet with tears threatening to escape - to see the angel’s face before him. His hands hold Dean’s face still, his gaze unwavering.

 

_I gave everything for you. And this is what you give to me._

 

    Suddenly the setting seems perfect. A panic room the site where Dean must confront the feelings he feared most. Not of wanting Cas, not of missing Cas, not of craving him. Of needing him. Of loving him. And - most terrifying of all - of being loved by him. It’s true that Castiel gave everything for him. Dean didn’t need the reminder.

 

    But maybe he could give back more than he had.

 

    And so with that, Dean sets aside the panic. The worry. The fear. He thinks not of the apocalypse that awaits them. He thinks only of now. He thinks of only of Cas. That he gave everything and it was not for nothing.

 

    Dean leans forward intently and kisses his angel.

 

xxxxx

 

    There was part of Castiel that was reluctant to ever break away from Dean’s lips. He feared that if he pulled away - if he opened his eyes - even for a moment - even to inhale a single breath - he would lose Dean once again. The angel - who had lived through mass extinctions, who had watched entire cities burn, who thought he’d understood the full depth of the word ‘loss’ before - Cas didn’t know if he could survive that.

 

    But then there was this other part of him, opposed to that first instinct - one that insisted on space. To make sure he wasn’t in some waking dream once more. That this was _real._ That Dean - this Dean - his Dean - wanted this. And so, Cas’s lips depart from Dean’s. The movement was miniscule - a few centimeters, give or take.

    

    Just far enough that, when Castiel opens his eyes, he is still close enough to appreciate how Dean’s eyelashes flutter for a moment. Just far enough that he can hear the faintest moan migrate from Dean’s mouth. Just far enough to feel the warmth of the relieved breath that leaves Dean’s lungs. Just far enough that it takes nearly no effort at all to kiss Dean again.

 

    And this kiss - it’s not like the first. That kiss seemed to be an answer to a question unuttered but plaguing both men for months. That kiss was about the past. This kiss is about the present - about immediacy and _now_ and bodies _needing_ to melt into one another. As if how their bodies crashed into one another expressed everything neither could manage to find in words.

 

    Because when Dean’s tongue plunges into Castiel’s mouth, it says _I want you._ How the two men frantically fumble out of their clothes - each layer shed says _I’m sure_ louder than the last. How they tumble on that tiny bed, how their bodies bound into one another over and over again as if skin to skin wasn’t enough - always seeking more - that motion says _I’ve missed you_ in ways that words would surely fail.

 

    Castiel’s hands lavish upon every inch of Dean’s flesh, his fingers diving into hair, traversing down Dean’s spine, gripping him at his hips. Pulling him flush with his own body - his lips engulfing each expanse of skin more forcefully than the last. It was like returning home.

 

    He had known the feeling before - when they had been together like this - in that life they had shared. Except this time, as Cas turns his attention away from the flurry of kisses he was leaving across Dean’s chest, when he glances up at Dean, it takes one word, barely whispered from the hunter’s lips, to surpass any memory.

 

     _Real._

 

xxxxx

 

     _Harder_ , Dean whimpers, Cas’s hand wrapped around his cock. The angel takes his order, moving his fingers firm and fast down Dean’s shaft. And he seems to share Dean’s desire - thrusting his own hardness through Dean’s grip. Bucking over and over again as the two lie side by side on a twin mattress, each covered in a sheen of sweat.

 

    It is all so utterly sublime but - it leaves Dean wanting more. Enough that he manages in between moans to say as much to Castiel. The syllable has no sooner been espoused when Dean is left alone, Castiel fluttering away in the buff. He returns only seconds later, his hands now full with a box of condoms and a more than adequate bottle of lube.

 

    All of this - Castiel’s vulnerability - Dean’s action - the angel’s response in full - it was as if it had been read from a timeless script - they were things that were supposed to happen when two people finally consummate their feelings.

 

    Having an angel of the Lord hover over you with all the necessary supplies for intercourse wasn’t the stuff that one’d find in the pages of any romance novel or fanfic or porno. Well, at least none Dean had stumbled upon.

 

    But it too is a perfect moment. Because it went off-script, just like they had, time and time again. It reflected the crazy, unpredictable affront to destiny that was their relationship. And Dean would have it no other way. It unearths a laugh buried deep in his belly. One that does nothing to dampen the mood. Because when Cas admits that he gave the folks at the local pharmacy in Boise, Idaho quite the show - it was everything Dean needed in that moment. All that he needed to finally - after all this time - say it out loud.

 

    “I love you Cas.”

 

    Not said because one of them was about to die. Not said as a last resort. Said only because every atom of Dean’s body was screaming it so.

 

    Castiel pulls Dean towards him, dropping his merchandise to embrace the other man solidly. Close enough to whisper into Dean’s ear a simple “ _me too.”_ Dean flashes Cas a quick smile before asking him the question he needs to know the answer to.

 

    “Is it a sin twice over if what you stole is for sex?”

 

    Castiel shrugs his shoulders before his admission, made between kisses.

 

    “It’s worth it. You’re worth it.”

 

    And just like that, humour gives way to heat once more. Collapsing down onto the bed, both men grasp at anything they can get their hands on. Until finally - as he is rutting into Dean’s belly, his cock dripping with anticipation, Cas builds up the courage to ask.

 

    “How do you want it Dean?” he gasps.

 

    The hunter takes one of the angel’s fingers into his mouth, giving him his answer.

 

xxxxx

 

    Fifteen minutes and three well-lubricated fingers later, Dean has said yes to an angel, over and over again. _Yes Cas, so good. Yes Cas, keep going. Yes Cas, I’m ready._

 

    It is a yes that Castiel readily accepts, sinking into Dean with his whole body - filling him and feeling full himself. The two move as one like waves - calm and steady at points, turbulent and frantic when they are close. After each of their bodies has brought the other to that otherworldly wreckage, a single truth is exchanged from Dean to Castiel.

 

    There is only one angel he wants inside of him, now and forever.

 

xxxxx

 

    After an unrepentant cuddle session, begrudgingly the two agree to unwrap themselves from each other’s limbs. Not regretting in the slightest their actions, but not quite ready or willing to be caught in such a state by Sam. Or Adam. Or Bobby. Wanting to keep their relationship - forged on the precipice of the end - to themselves for now. And so they dress - stealing small smiles and wayward glances along the way - preparing themselves for their reunion with the rest of their motley crew.

 

    “Ready?” Cas asks, Dean’s arm slung around his shoulder.

 

   Dean nods happily in his direction.

 

    They flutter in upstairs - arriving unannounced in Bobby’s living room. The seasoned hunter takes in the sight of a breathless Dean - hues of purple and red across his neck - lips swollen.

 

    His condition leads Bobby to ask the question. _“What happened to him?”_

    

    Cas is not lying when he he responds, fighting back a smile. _“Me.”_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, am I right? Only three more chapters to go!


	30. Chicago, Illinois

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mostly the events of "Two Minutes to Midnight." Radically redefined, of course.

* * *

 

 

    Dean is relatively certain that he never wants to leave this Sioux Falls motel room. Because in it - there is nothing to fight or fear. Just the sound of Castiel’s heart beating beneath his cheek, the smell of honey and cinnamon on the angel’s balmy skin. He never knew he could find such peace in low-thread count sheets. But just because nothing was wrong didn’t mean Dean wasn’t nervous. The way he was drumming the beat to “Ramble On” on Castiel’s arm said as much.

 

    He only gets to the first chorus before Castiel asks him what’s wrong, all while donning a look on his face like everything in the world is right. It’s funny - through their time together - Dean’s not sure he’s ever seen Cas look so relaxed. It suits him.

 

    “Hmm?” Dean tries to play dumb. Castiel doesn’t buy it.

 

    “I might not be as enamoured with it as you but - you’ve played that Led Zeppelin song enough for me to recognize the percussion. And I must say - not a great post-coital tune.”

 

    Dean’s body goes still. “Sorry Cas, I’ll stop.” But when his fingers cease, his mind takes over - the speech coming into being even as Dean chastises himself to stop. Words unlike Dean has ever spoken in his life. _Oh no_. Dean hesitates, knowing he’s about to pour his heart out and only half hating it. He takes a big breath in - choosing to speak to Castiel’s groin rather than his face.

 

     _“Look, I have no illusions, okay? I know the life that I live, I know how that’s gonna end for me. Whatever. I’m okay with that. But I wanted you to know…that when I do picture myself happy…it’s with you.”_

 

    Cas’s hand cradles Dean’s jaw, forcing him to pull up towards him, placing a kiss at the tip of Dean’s nose. Admiring that spot at the bridge where it had been broken so many times - a flaw Cas had mindfully preserved when he put Dean back together.

 

    And then the angel responds, with few, precious words. “When I picture myself happy Dean -- all I see is you.”

 

    There have been others who have managed to make Dean feel cared for in his life. It’s a short list - but it’s a list. But there is not a single soul who has walked or will walk this planet that makes Dean feel more loved than he does by Castiel in that moment. And that’s the greatest thing that’s ever happened to Dean - but at the absolute worst time. Because having something great - it just makes life that much harder when you lose it. So Dean’s not entirely joking when he asks the question of Cas.

 

    “How serious is this apocalypse anyway?”

 

  The broad smile fades slightly in the answer.  “Very serious Dean - end of life as we know it.”

 

  Dean knows he should have some eloquent response to that - or a joke to stave off how terribly frightening the angel’s answer is. Instead he responds plainly with the truth.

 

    “I like life.”

 

    The crinkle is back in those blue eyes. “I like life with you.”

 

    Dean rests his head once again on Cas’s shoulder.  “Cas - I think we should make a deal. Not to put anything on pause but - we can’t let down our guard. I won’t let myself enjoy this fully until we’ve given Lucifer the swift kick in his ass he deserves. But if we make it through this - I say that earns us a beer together? Don’t you?”

 

    “It’s a date.”

 

xxxxx

 

    It had been a month since Dean and Cas had had _the talk_ (which happened after another rigorous round of fornicating - this time in a proper bed in a less than proper motel room rather than imprisoned in Bobby’s basement) _._ Dean thought of it whenever he needed an extra ounce of courage or two, whenever he needed something to look forward to. So, over the past few weeks, that had been a daily occurrence. Because those weeks - they had not been easy. He’d watched gods die. They’d lost Adam again. Hell, Dean even felt sad to see Gabriel bite the dust (although he was never really certain that guy was gone).

 

    And of course, there was the hardest part - where Cas went and did the stupid thing, saving the Winchesters again, flinging himself halfway around the world in the process. Ending up almost human. Still strong enough to take out a Horseman, though. Dean smirked. Cas kinda kicked ass.

 

    Dean needed that promise of a happy ending to help him get through this past month. Today was no different - here he was, parked under the L tracks in Chicago, ready to meet Death. For deep dish.

 

    Just another day at the office.

 

xxxxx

 

    If Dean Winchester had to wager where their lucky break would come, he wouldn’t have guessed Death. But sure enough the guy - the Primordial entity - seemed to be on their side. Of course, not without a price. A price Dean had agreed to - a price he’s not sure if he’s willing to pay.

 

    To let Sammy say _yes._  To let him jump inside the Cage to lock Lucifer up. A suicide mission that - sure - was fine for Dean - but for his younger brother? Dean couldn’t live with that cost.

 

    He’s got time to think it over - an eight hour drive from the Windy City back up to Bobby’s. Eight hours to imagine - over and over - a life without Sam. One where his brother hadn’t been erased from his memory - one where he’d have to know he’d had a hand in his death.

 

    By the time he hits the Minnesota border, Dean’s convinced himself to let Sammy do it, to kill Sammy before he can do it, to persuade Lucifer to let him be his vessel instead, to throw himself in the pit with the both of them, to keep his brother company. He admits defeat - he’s not going to resolve this on his own.

 

    And so Dean calls for help. Feeling a little less overwhelmed when he hears the voice on the other end of the line.

 

    “Hello Dean.”

 

    “Hey Cas. You got your wings back yet?”

 

    There is an audible sigh. “If you are asking if I am able to fly yet, I’m sad to say no. Still grounded.”

 

    “Oh.” Neither man speaks - the only sound the Impala’s gentle rumble as Dean drives on.

 

    But soon Castiel grows … not quite impatient. Kindly curious. “What is it Dean?”

 

    “Just -- on my way back. Could use some company.” _And I wish you were here_ , Dean thinks, pleased he still possesses some self-restraint.

 

    “You know - the voice isn’t warning me about my impending lack of minutes. We could talk. I could listen.”

 

    “Yeah?”

 

    “Of course.”

 

    Dean braces himself. He finally builds up the nerve to talk about it as he passes a dairy farm with a dozen or so cows out in the pasture. Chowing down on grass as if the world would still be there tomorrow. “Death wants Sammy to do it. To say yes. Seemed nearly optimistic that he could do it.”

 

    “Interesting. Your brother - he seemed to arrive at that same conclusion.”

 

    Dean’s stomach drops a little with the confirmation. “Helluva Hail Mary, if you ask me.”

 

    “Dean - I’m not sure that I follow. How is your brother committing himself to Satan connected to the Virgin Mother?”

 

   There is usually something comforting in Castiel’s continued lack of knowledge in English turn of phrase - but right now he found it grating.“You know what - forget it. Cas - I don’t know if I can let him do it.”

 

    The pause lasts long enough for pastures to give way to lakes.

 

    “Got something to say, angel?”

 

    “I don’t think you want to hear it.”

 

    “What is it?” Dean straightened in his seat, shaking the restless feeling from his legs.  “Two minutes to midnight Cas - I think we are past the point of walking on eggshells.”

 

    “I really don’t want to have our first fight prior to our first actual date.”

 

     _Precious_. That’s what Castiel is. _Precious_. Dean chuckles and promises he won’t get angry.

 

    “It’s just - Dean - look at the past few years. You and Sam have been combatants. You have made one foolhardy decision after another to save and spare one another. Chaos ensued. You even tried to walk away from one another. With a little help from Satan on that front.”

 

    Dean is at once reminded that his angel has very poor eloquence in delivering bad news.“Is this supposed to help, Cas?”

 

    “It’s just -” Dean could hear the hesitation in his tone. “In all of that time - has it occurred to you that you haven’t tried one thing? That you could still be family and allow one another to chart your own courses? That - even though you’ve kept him safe for his whole life and that’s admirable - it really is Dean - that that’s not your role any longer? That it’s your job now to love him no matter what choice he makes?”

 

    “Listen Cas --”

 

    “No Dean, you need to listen. There is nothing less in the world I want than for Sam to have to do this. But you asked for advice and this is it. Sam’s made his choice - and it’s the best bet we got. Now it’s your turn. Are you going to stand in his way or are you going to give him his blessing - show him that his brother loves him and believes in him?”

 

xxxxx

  
    Dean didn’t think about the future for the rest of his trip home. He’s too busy revisiting the fondest memories he shared with his brother - ones that’d have to do for a lifetime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I totally ventriloquized Dean's little speech to Lisa from "99 Problems" for this chaptter. Because man oh man, I love season five, but how much better would it have been if Cas was on the receiving end of those words?
> 
> Also - two more chapters. Will I be able to get it done by the end of the calendar year? CLOCK IS TICKING!


	31. Lawrence, Kansas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, we've arrived to the end. "Swan Song" is one of my favourite episodes and distilling it down for this story was a really hard challenge. I hope I did it justice.

* * *

 

    The hardest sentence Dean ever had to compose had two vowels, two consonants and two pieces of punctuation.

 

     _“I’m in.”_

 

    Because as Dean drove his brother towards the Devil in Detroit, he regretted those two words with the full weight of his heart.

 

    When Sammy made him promise that he’ll leave him behind in the pit, that he’ll let himself have an apple pie life - those two words seemed like the biggest mistake Dean had ever made.

 

    As Dean watched Lucifer overpower his baby brother - Dean knows he will live with the pain of those two words until he gave up the ghost.

 

     _I’m in_ hurt something fierce as he looked at his two battle-weary comrades on that Detroit street, ready to forfeit.

 

     _I’m in_ gnawed at his gut as he glanced at Bobby Singer, looking so damn defeated.

 

     _I’m in_ was boiling in Dean’s blood as he castigated Cas. Using that lifetime of saying stupid shit he doesn’t mean to push away the ones stupid enough to love him. Hoping to God it’s calloused enough to keep Cas far away from where Dean’s going next.

    

     _I’m in_ plays on a loop through Dean’s mind as he seeks out a way to sign his own death warrant. It comes in the form of a phone call to Chuck. _Tomorrow. High noon. Stull Cemetery._ The words ring through Dean’s ears as he imagines the final scene.

 

    Because _I’m in_ didn’t mean leaving Sammy alone to face the end, that’s for sure. Because Sam had made him promise he’d go after his happy ending, once he was gone. He didn’t say anything about doing something that’d make sure that happy ending went unwritten. That beer with Cas - it might end up having to be at Ash’s place in Heaven. If Dean was let in, that is. Because there was no place Dean was going to meet his end other than at his brother’s side. Each certain step he takes towards the Impala after hanging up on Chuck says as much. If he drives all night, he can make it there in time.

 

    Because for Dean _I’m in_ means he’s in, til his last breath. He tells Cas and Bobby he’s got nothing left to lose - praying that they’ll stay behind so that it’s true.

 

xxxxx

 

    The wind is howling in Lawrence, Kansas beneath a sky that looks like a blanket of pale grey clouds. The trees of Stull are still bare - even though it’s late in the spring. Like life wasn’t meant to go on in this place. Like the seasons themselves knew this land was fated for something else.

 

   It’s the small things that stand out to Dean - the sound of the whip of the wind - the crooked angles of leafless tree branches. Moments that mattered - the ones that really hurt - they stuck with him in the most miniscule ways. The creek of steps beneath his four year old feet as he runs with his baby brother in his hands into the night. Chords of that CCR song fading into the smash of glass. The weight of Sammy’s body in his arms in Cold Oak. The pain of hellhound fangs ripping into his flesh over and over - only to be replaced by Hell.

 

    But this - this is the setting of Dean’s worst nightmare. Because this is where he would watch his loved ones, fall one by one. He'd memorize every detail.

 

    The cadence of Cas’s epithet. The exact arc of the hurled Molotov cocktail. The surprised expression on Castiel’s face in the aftermath - as if he couldn’t believe it himself how he had rebelled against two older brothers at once.

 

    And then, the sound. The cold, calculated snap of two fingers that left Castiel scattered across that barren field. There was a time where Dean had to imagine the wrath an archangel could unload against his brethren, having heard from Chuck of Cas’s death at Raphael’s hands. Dean was sure reality couldn’t match the horrors of his imagination.

 

    He was wrong. Because when every part of Cas disintegrated in front of him - well, Dean learns firsthand that Lucifer didn’t earn the throne of Hell on a whim. Because the loss of Cas - it disintegrated within Dean the hope of any happy ending he might have. True torture.

 

    To anyone looking at him - the loss might seem minimal. But that was only because Dean wasn’t given even a moment to mourn. Not given the time to discern which part of him is grieving because Cas’s strength was obliterated so easily - which part is destroyed by the loss of future kisses - which part is unwilling to face innumerable mornings without the angel at his side. Dean isn’t given the time to process all the ways in which Castiel matters to him. No - all Lucifer gives Dean are seconds. And in those seconds, all Dean feels is profound, infinite, crushing, soul-shattering sadness. Because the eulogy he would write to Cas is interrupted by a crack that cuts the air when the Devil broke Bobby Singer’s spine like a twig.

 

    And so - Dean knows it’s happening - there’s part of him that feels each and every blow land upon his face. He can taste nothing but iron as blood fills his mouth. He can feel his skin swelling as Lucifer ruthlessly wails on him. It’s just - that hurt pales in comparison. But Dean would endure each and every hit because there was part of Sam still in there - part that needed to see that his big brother would never give up.

 

    Having lost everything else that mattered to Dean, the cold metal of the Impala behind him is his only comfort. The Impala - the site of the road so far - it turns out to be Dean’s accidental secret weapon. It’s a fluke, really - pure luck - how the sun finds a way to break through the clouds - just for a second - hitting just the right stretch of silver to make Satan squint. To lose focus.

 

    And in that second, Sammy wins.

 

    Dean can’t see what’s playing in Sam’s mind at that moment. Couldn’t begin to process how twenty seven years as brothers could pass in seconds. It’s a miracle he’s not meant to understand. Dean and Sam Winchester had lost a happy home the night of November 2, 1983. But this car was a reminder that they never were - not even once - homeless. Because they always had each other.

 

    Dean can’t see every happy memory - some monumental, others miniscule - that Sammy thinks of. Doesn’t know the sum of those memories could possibly be enough. But it is. Enough to make Sam Winchester stronger than Satan.

 

   The Devil is defeated that day in Lawrence Kansas. By two boys, an old drunk and a fallen angel. With only the military might of little green army men.

 

   And then hazel eyes are turned to Dean once again - but this time it’s his brother’s soul, and not the archangel, that shines through. Sam reassures him it’s okay - it’s gonna be okay. Every feeling that flickers across his face tells Dean otherwise. But that he’s not going to let that fear hold him back. That’s what real bravery was, wasn’t it? Having the courage to see your fears straight on.

 

    That’s the way Dean chooses to remember Sam. Brave. So Dean faces his worst fear alongside his brother. Dean lets go.

 

    And then he’s alone, bloodied and broken in that boneyard in Kansas.

 

xxxxx

 

    Dean feels no need to move, crumpled against hallowed ground. His injuries are a secondary thought to the main question running through his mind - where was there to go from here? Because even though the world’s gotten another chance - even though the project of humanity lives to see another day - Dean still feels like his old self. Angry. Lost. Even though he got exactly what he was looking for - no paradise, no hell. Just more of the same. Freedom at the expense of peace. Asking himself once again where his grand prize was for doing his duty.

 

    And then, he feels the presence, looming overhead. _Not gone_. Two fingers reach out - fingers that can once again heal. The busted lip - the black eye - the broken ribs. They all fade with a single caress. But there are some injuries that not even Cas can reach. Even if he is new and improved.

 

    But what if that upgrade wasn’t just about Cas’s grace? Defying death - it was another chance at life. _New and improved._

 

    Could Dean be new and improved too?

 

    Because - in that graveyard in Lawrence, Kansas - Dean would be the first to admit that he didn't want Cas to save him. That he was wholly content to make Stull his final resting place. Every part of him, every fiber he's got, wants to die, or find a way to bring Sam back. But he isn't gonna do either. Because he made a promise.

 

    That he’d go get himself a slice of an apple pie life. And Dean’s not a guy to break a promise. It’s just - perhaps for the first time in his life - Dean Winchester isn’t craving pie. No, he’s got something else he thinks he’s earned.

 

    And so he forces a small smile - its fraud slowly fading with time when he does one more brave thing. Giving himself the chance to be happy.

 

    “Cas, I think I’d like to take you up on that beer.”

  
    It’s what Sammy would have wanted.

 

**END OF ACT FOUR**


	32. Epilogue: Waterville, Maine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quick little peek into their lives - four months after "Swan Song." Trying to channel the vibes from the prologue once more.

* * *

 

    Two sets of hands fumble towards the alarm clock that was rudely interrupting some quite exquisite morning sex. Unable to find the proper button to silence its monstrous drone, Dean settles on pulling the plug from the wall. And with that effort, the room is once again quiet enough to hear nothing but the pleas to _keep going_ panted forth from the hunter. Castiel’s hands return to the brass frame behind the other man’s head. He never was one to defy orders without reason.

 

    The angel knew an attention to detail was one of his strongest attributes. And how happy he was to employ that strength upon Dean’s body. There was a catalogue of his noble efforts in hues of red and purple splashed across Dean’s neck and chest - a map of the parts Dean most adored being kissed, bitten, sucked. Castiel memorized the way Dean would come apart at the seams when he dug his fingers into the muscle of his  shoulder - how that point of first contact between the Righteous Man and the Fallen Angel was still so sensitive. And it was the angel’s meticulous nature that allowed him to come crashing down on Dean’s cock at just the right angle - over and over and over again - to make the hunter lose the ability to produce comprehensible speech.  

 

    After Castiel’s precision has left the two of them once again fully satisfied, he reluctantly dismounts, taking a look around the room. A total mess. This room - the same where it all began a year ago. It was once the site of an uncomfortable memory - of a fabricated happiness. Reclaimed with passion and fervor as _real_ by the two men in an impressive variety of positions over the past forty-eight hours.

 

xxxxx

 

    “You know, this shower really wasn’t built for two,” Dean manages to gasp out as the angel’s mouth works its magic on that sensitive spot below his earlobe. He nearly regrets the joke as Cas pulls back to respond.

 

    “Good thing we don’t care much for personal space.”

  


xxxxx

 

    After quashing no fewer than four well-worded protests on Dean’s account that they didn’t _really_ need to get dressed, _ever_ , the two men begin to pack their bags - getting ready for their next case. Dean’s in plaid. Cas would have him no other way.

 

    They are just about to investigate a possible shapeshifter in New Hampshire when Dean’s phone buzzes with a message. _Sammy_.

 

_So get this…_

 

    Dean had kept his promise to Sam. He didn’t go after him. Castiel, on the other hand, made no such pledge. In fact - the promise he did make to Sam - awkwardly but earnestly - was to _take care_ of Dean. And the best way to take care of Dean was to give him his brother back. Another chance to be the kind of family the other needed.

 

    It helped Dean keep his word to his brother.  It wasn’t all barbeques and football games, but there was pie. In many flavours. This life with Cas? It made him happy. And it made Dean happy that Sam got another chance too. He’d gone back to school - eschewing law to pursue a doctorate in Religious History - still helping them with research when he could.

 

    Today’s offering was a qualification of the specific sort of shapeshifter he thought they were hunting. Celtic Púca, as it turns out. For all his help (it was a multi-part message), Sam earned Dean’s gratitude.

 

_Thanks nerd._

 

_Jerk._

 

_Bitch._

 

    There was no rational reason Dean could be absolutely certain, but every part of him is sure his brother’s smiling on the west coast at that very moment.

 

    “Ready?” Dean asks as he grabs this week’s identities, handing a badge to his partner. Castiel takes a moment to look back at the room before nodding, ready to leave it behind for a new stretch of scenery, somewhere along the open road.

 

    Dean takes the angel’s hand into his own as they walk towards the Impala. Just him, a case, his partner, the Impala.

  
    “We’ve got work to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A fic started on a whim during summer break (it’ll take me a few weeks to write, tops! she told herself, fool that she was) that is completed during winter break. A fic that was supposed to be 20K words or so that ended up doubling that. A fic that I love with all of my heart, although it was a fierce foe at times to write. A fic I absolutely would have abandoned without those readers who checked in along the way to say that it - in some tiny little way - was something you looked forward to reading. 
> 
> So thank you - honestly - if you made it this far. If you gave a kudo or comment along the way - you gave me the strength to complete this. It means the world to me.


End file.
